


The Shield and the Flame

by skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Character Development, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A backstory, a character study, whatever you want to call it: my take on what made Cassandra what she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shield and the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> As this is Cassandra's backstory, it involves violence and trauma, but it's not explicitly detailed. It's written in the same DAverse as my Cassandra/Trev stories.
> 
> The characters and world (and some quotes from the beginning of Inquisition) belong to Bioware, not me: I've just taken them out to play.
> 
> UPDATE: erm, I may have done [a drawing](http://skyboneharper.tumblr.com/image/135354006244) to go with this.

**The beginning**

The world has ended. Cassandra sits in a haze of red pain and waits to die.

There is nothing she can see but red. It is everywhere, splashed on the ground, dappling the bushes. It is on her knees where she knelt. It is on her hands, where she touched him.

Her attendants, unable to make her respond, find the old woman who had been her nurse when she was a baby. They strip her from her stiff, crusted clothes and lift her into the tub. Her nurse bathes her, murmuring to her as if she was still much younger. It does not make any difference: the red is still there. She can smell it.

Her nurse brings her food, but she will not eat. She will not drink. She turns away from their words and does not hear them. They put her to bed, but she lies awake. Later in the dark she sits up and swings her feet over the edge of the bed and waits. Surely she will die soon?

In her mind, Anthony says, _Cassandra, little sister_. He tells her about the last dragon he hunted. _There were two of them_ , he says, _and we didn’t realize it. It was a very close thing. But I killed one of them. When you are older, you will come with me. We will kill dragons together. I will teach you_. She imagines standing by him, both of them in armour. He is handsome and smiling, he shines like a star. She carries a new sword that he has given her for her birthday, a beautiful sword, telling her she is strong and brave.

In the morning they dress her and take her to her uncle. She follows obediently.

“Cassandra,” says Vestalus heavily. He has arranged his face into an expression of sadness. “I am very sorry, my dear.”

 _The man cannot express an honest emotion to save his life_ , says Anthony.

But something in her uncle’s face moves, and she thinks suddenly that he really is sad. Anthony had seen more of him than she had. Maybe he liked Anthony, really liked him. But he is speaking again. He is saying that there have been no clues to the whereabouts of the blood mages. He is saying that hey have disappeared entirely. He is saying that the search will continue. He is saying that the rites for Anthony

 _His voice creaks unpleasantly_ , says Anthony.

She nods when there are intervals in the creaking, but hears nothing. Eventually they take her back to her room.

Her mouth is dry and bitter as salt and ashes. She sits and waits.

 _You must be strong_ , says Anthony. _Our duty is to live for those who go before us. You are strong, little sister._

I am not that strong, thinks Cassandra. I can’t.

But Anthony is grinning at her, full of pride. She cannot let him down.

 _You will be a good hunter_ , says Anthony.

I can be a good hunter, thinks Cassandra. I can hunt mages.

She takes a drink of water.

*           *           *

After two days she hears the servants speaking: the Master has given orders that Anthony’s room is to be cleaned out. She goes in that night and takes a few things for herself. She takes his old jerkin. It is the one he wore on his last dragon hunt; it smells of Anthony and leather and sweat and fire. She keeps it in a chest, carefully hidden under other clothing, bringing it out from time to time to press against her face. The smell is familiar and right, but it fades. It is far too large for her, but she will grow.

She takes Anthony’s second best sword; the best one was taken by the mages who killed him. The next day she hides the blade in a dusty corner of a crypt in the Necropolis, near the place where Anthony had begun to teach her swordplay.

She takes Anthony’s books. Some of them are too difficult for her, but she will keep them and read them; they are the books he studied, and she is determined to learn what he learned. She puts aside the novels that are her usual fare; they will not serve her purpose.

She takes a small carving of a dragon that she made for him when she was nine years old: it is crude but he said that he loved it.

She takes nothing else.

The house has gone into mourning, and she has no lessons. Her tutor does not come. Her governess is present but useless; she was very fond of Anthony, and expresses her sorrow dramatically, in a way that offends Cassandra. She tries her best to offer comfort, but Cassandra will accept none. She is strong. She is going to hunt apostates. She does not want to lose her determination, the anger that sustains her, in sadness, in weakness. She does not want to be around the sorrowing governess, and makes that very clear, and the woman finally gives up and takes to her room.

Cassandra overhears the governess say something to a servant about an unnatural child. She does not care. She is strong. Anthony said so.

Because she has no lessons, Cassandra has far more time to herself than usual. For the first two days she does nothing but sit in her room. She tries to comprehend what happened, and why it happened. When her parents were executed she was too young to really understand, but she is older now. She _must_ understand. The Chantry teaches that the Maker has turned his face away from humanity, refusing to involve himself in the world; she has not realized what that meant at a gut level until now. Now the meaning is very clear: evil can attack a hero, and he will die, and the Maker will not intervene.

But that does not make sense.

She does not rage at the Maker. She makes herself think logically. _Logic is a powerful weapon_ , says Anthony. _There is always a reason for things, if you can work out what it is_. If the Maker did not save Anthony, there must be a reason. Anthony was good. But too many people are not like Anthony. They have not seen the Maker’s truth. There is too much evil in the world, too many people who do not follow Andraste’s teaching, too many who are not good. She knows that she is not good herself; she has been told this far too often to have illusions in that direction. She is headstrong and impetuous and stubborn and— _The world is hard. But you can choose to do good_ , says Anthony. _You can stand for truth. You can strive against evil_.

The Chantry stands against evil. On the third day, she asks to go to the Chantry to pray, and is taken. She is afraid that Nomi will try to hug her, but the sister looks at her carefully and simply puts a hand on her shoulder. That is all right. “I am sorry, Cassandra,” she says. “I am here if you ever wish to talk. But you do not have to.” That is even better.

 _When things are darkest, faith is a beacon_ , says Anthony. She remembers when her parents were killed. Anthony prayed then, and it gave him comfort. She prays now, and then prays more, still trying to understand. There is still no word on the apostates who killed him. Cassandra knows that it would be wrong to pray directly for another’s death, though it is very hard not to do so. She prays instead for the strength that will help her hunt blood mages, to make the world a better place, to stamp out evil.

After she finishes praying Nomi gives her small tasks, and she is grateful for them. It occupies some of her mind. Every day she returns to the Chantry to pray and to do the tasks that Nomi sets her.

The preparations for Nevarran funeral rites are complicated and lengthy, and not all of her time, usually so full, can be spent at the Chantry. She goes to the dusty mezzanine where Anthony taught her swordplay every day, takes up his sword, and practices. No one questions her absences; they are used to her treating the Necropolis as a playground, and she has shown that she is obedient to the stricture that she does not trouble the many outsiders who visit the city of the dead. The mezzanine is quiet, tucked away up an inconspicuous flight of stairs, and never visited; that is why Anthony chose it.

Practicing by herself is not the same, but he has taught her the patterned training routines, and she can do those. _They may be boring_ , says Anthony, _but they train your body to respond without thinking. That will save your life someday_. She reads his books on swordplay and tries to learn from them. The sword is too heavy, much heavier than the small blunted swords he gave her to learn with, but she is determined. She manages to hide the occasional small cuts she gives herself when she cannot quite control the blade, and she never hurts herself seriously. She is sometimes frustrated but does not give up; she knows she will become stronger as she grows.

*           *           *

Cassandra attends the rites, but refuses to visit Anthony’s body afterwards, no matter how Uncle Vestalus insists. “There is no reason to be afraid, child,” he says.

“I am not afraid,” she says truthfully. And she is not. She is used to the dead. But she does not wish to look at what had been Anthony and no longer is. She does not wish to see the high collar that hides his neck and holds his head in place. She does not want to see a spirit move the husk. For the first week after the rites, every time her brother spoke in her mind he was accompanied by the smell of the Necropolis, the reek of sunflowers. She refuses that smell, she refuses to accept that it is part of her brother now. After a while she can again hear his voice without the smell, but she will not chance its return. She will not visit her family’s crypts again.

*           *           *

After the rites her life returns to normal, if anything now can be seen as normal. She resumes her lessons with her tutor and governess. Her days are filled, and Anthony is no longer there to insist that she be allowed to escape her lessons to spend time with him. She slips off when she can, to practice with the sword, often after she is supposed to be in bed asleep; she has long since found a secret route to escape their estate without alerting the guards.

It makes her terribly tired, but that does not matter. She has a purpose. She will achieve it.

The lessons are as they always have been. The tutor is startled by her sudden interest in the history and function and political status of the templars; it is not something she has previously shown much interest in. But now she has thought things out logically: if she wishes to hunt mages, it is as a templar that she would best be able to do it. It is the templars who control the mages in their Circles. It is the templars who hunt apostates.

She is even more stubbornly resentful of the things the governess teaches than she used to be, and vocal about it; a templar does not need to know needlework. The governess, who is not a stupid woman, consults with the tutor, and takes a new tack. She comments in an offhand way that the skills taught to young noble women have a wider application than one might expect; a soldier needs to know needlework in order to repair their gear. The steps learned in dancing are not so dissimilar to the footwork of combat, and teach one balance. Etiquette allows one to go anywhere, and the genealogy of the noble houses is essential for anyone whose work is in a political arena.

Cassandra, who is not stupid either, understands that she is being manipulated. She knows perfectly well that the skills she is being taught are not intended for templars, but for the goals of achieving a profitable marriage. But... there is some truth in what the governess says. _A good fighter can work with anything_ , says Anthony, _and adapt to any circumstance_. She can adapt and _make_ these skills useful. Her acceptance is grudging, but she stops actively resisting her governess’ teaching. She even begins to enjoy the dancing for the elegant precision of its footwork.

The mages who killed Anthony are long gone. Uncle Vestalus tells her that King Markus sent templars to track them, but called them back after the murderers had been traced to the port city of Cumberland. It is assumed that the mages have left Nevarra, and there would be no profit in trying to follow them further.

Cassandra is outraged. It is not _right_ that they gave up so easily; where is the justice in that? Her brother deserves more. _Justice?_ says Anthony. _Too often justice depends on its convenience to rulers_.

But that is not as it should be. Her fury smoulders, and she lets it. It is safer than the alternative.

*           *           *

Cassandra’s days are busy, but not full. In the evenings, unless her uncle is entertaining and requires her presence, she is in the company of the governess but otherwise left to her own devices. She does a great deal of reading. She always has; Anthony was often away, and there are no other children in the Necropolis. His loss does not change things so greatly, apart from the raw hole that sits under her breastbone.

Anthony had begun to collect books on martial techniques, books on dragon hunting, stories of dragon hunters. She studies these carefully. She still thinks that it may be possible to be a dragon hunter someday, even if she becomes a templar.

For the first weeks after Anthony’s death she reads only his books, and others that she believes will serve her purpose. But his books are in general very dry, and eventually her resolve weakens. She continues to read them, but also allows herself to read less practical books as well.

Vestalus is wealthy, and has an extensive library. She is permitted to read anything, apart from the volumes kept in locked cabinets. Many of her uncle’s books are dull and pedantic, but there are some books of history that tell exciting tales once you get past the dry prose style. There are books of poetry. She loves them for the fluid grace of their words, words that wind and surprise and tease her emotions. She reads them in wonder. She knows that her own words are like dull stones, and she cannot understand how a person can make language dance in such a way.

And then there are the books her governess reads. These are cheaply produced, not like the beautiful tomes her uncle collects, the books with their tooled leather and gold embossing and fine marbled endpapers. The paper in her governess’s books yellows quickly, and they tend to fall apart if read too often.

But they are far more entertaining than the volumes on history and magic. The governess keeps them in her room, and hides some of them. But she tends to disorganization in her own quarters, and once Cassandra has a good understanding of her habits it is easy to slip into her room and “borrow” a book without the governess noticing, and read them when the governess has retired for the night.

They are romances. They tell stories of love, and more than love, passion. Cassandra is not entirely clear on some of the finer points of the passion. She reads with careful attention; her uncle’s books include treatises on breeding dogs and horses for the purpose of hunting dragons, and while dry they are quite precise in some of the practical details, and she supposes that some of the information is also relevant to humans. But much of the passion in the romances is described using flowery euphemisms; it is only in the books that are hidden that more earthy descriptions are found. She prefers the euphemisms, on the whole; they are more inspiring and considerably more elegant. But she reads them all, carefully returning them to the clutter of the governess’s room afterwards.

Vestalus sent Cassandra and Anthony to attend the rituals at the Necropolis Chantry, despite its limitations, because it was convenient to do so; sending them to a larger chantry might have been more proper, but would have required effort. Now she visits the chantry more often. She seeks the predictable security of reciting the Chant with Nomi.

Vestalus has a copy of the Chant of Life, but it is very valuable, and she is not allowed to touch it; the chantry in the Necropolis has a much less precious copy, and this she is allowed to touch and read. She reads and rereads the words of the Chant until they stand like small burning lights in her mind. The words are comforting, and the rituals even more so. They provide answers. She passes her hand through the flame, and is unharmed; it reassures her.

The Chantry is a rock, solid and sure. Cassandra stands on the rock and burns.

 _You are strong_ , says Anthony. She holds to this, and believes it, and it gives her strength. As she practices with his sword, she sees that she is becoming stronger, and she is proud of her abilities; she is following in her brother’s footsteps.

But it also worries her. Pride is a sin. Evil exists because of humanity’s pride, and it is evil that killed Anthony. She should not feel pride in her accomplishments, but humility. She knows this, but does not know how to stop feeling the pride.

Nomi is tasked with maintaining the Necropolis Chantry and ordering the servants who clean it, and conducting the day-to-day rituals that are required even when no one else is there. Nomi is old. She is only a sister, not a Revered Mother, not one of the Grand Clerics who come to the chantry occasionally for official ceremonies. There is a Revered Mother responsible for the Necropolis chantry, but she is rarely there, as she has other duties and formal services in the Necropolis only happen once a week, and she seems remote and unapproachable. But Nomi is there all the time, and is not at all intimidating.

“Pride is a sin,” she says nervously to Nomi one day, “but I don’t understand how to stop feeling it when someone tells me I have done something well.”

Nomi looks at her tense face and says slowly, “It is in realizing that your talents come not from yourself, but from another, child. It is the Maker who gives us potential, and when we fulfill that potential it is only that we have accepted and used what we have been given. We are the conduits through which the Maker’s will may be perfected. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” says Cassandra after a moment. “But I still do not understand how to stop feeling it.”

“Any time you feel pride in your accomplishments, say to yourself, _This is the Maker’s gift_ ,” says Nomi. “Say, _I am only the channel_. In reminding yourself that you are not the source you may learn humility.”

Cassandra nods. She is not quite convinced of the efficacy of this, as pride seems such a strong and persistent emotion, but she will try. _Do the best you can_ , says Anthony. _That is all anyone can do._ And she tries.

*           *           *

Cassandra knows that her uncle wishes her to make an appropriate marriage, suitable for Nevarran royalty, even so many times removed. The romances she reads always have a happy ending, and in principle she rather likes the idea of a romantic pairing. She is not certain how one achieves this in practice: she becomes wordless and flustered simply thinking of actually saying such things as the lovers between the pages say.

The novels are irrelevant, however. She understands that the matches they describe, while satisfying in books, are not how things are actually done among the nobility, where marriages are arranged for mutual profit and advancement rather than romantic reasons. She knows that the negotiations for such marriages start when the candidates are very young, and she has always assumed that she will acquiesce when the time comes. It is what is done.

She has never understood, though, why it is necessary for her to have anything to do with the prospective suitors _now_ , since it is likely that neither she nor they will have any say in the matter. But Vestalus occasionally brings young men to dinner at his estate in the Necropolis, together with the seniors who negotiate on their behalf, and insists that she attend, and worse, interact with them. Such dinners are among the few occasions on which she sees her uncle, who is busy and rarely spends time with her; she finds him remote and intimidating and forever dissatisfied with her. Luckily when the suitors are there he talks to their seniors; she does not have to worry as to what she will say to him as well as the young men.

There are not so many suitors, really, for although she is a Pentaghast she is the daughter of traitors, but to her it seems they are countless.

When they first came to live with Vestalus he insisted that she wear beautiful dresses, but she refused to be fitted for them. A warrior, a dragon hunter, does not wear _dresses_. He in turn refused to buy her any other new clothing, thinking that she would be forced to relent as she grew; but she simply wore her old clothes until they were in tatters, and then Anthony’s hand-me-downs. They did not exactly fit, and were not flattering, but they covered her. Eventually her uncle gave up, and hired tailors to make her the clothing she wished. For formal dinners, after that, she wore beautifully embroidered breeches and jackets. This disconcerts some of the suitors, something in which she takes great pleasure. She does not enjoy being the only one who is flustered by the situation.

It was not so bad when Anthony was there; he would talk to them. Sometimes he would lead the conversation into subjects relating to dragon hunting, which awed them, or swordplay training, and then she would forget her shyness and actually be able to converse on the subject. But without him the whole thing is only painful. She does not want to deal with them. She does not know how to deal with them. Her governess has taught her what one should say, but the words dissolve in her mind before she can use them. She sits in resentful, tongue-tied silence when they try to talk to her, answering only direct questions, and those briefly.

“You will have to marry someday,” Vestalus said to her, after one agonizing evening. “I am giving you a chance to meet your suitors, which is far more than most couples get. I expect you to at least be civil to them. A good marriage will be a protection for you, child.”

She has never seen why she would need protection. Anthony was teaching her to fight; Vestalus had forbidden him to teach her dragon hunting skills, but agreed that a lady should know how to defend herself using daggers, and she and Anthony had maintained the fiction that this is what he was teaching her. She does not need a husband to protect her. She can protect herself. She said so. Vestalus opened his mouth, then shut it, sighed and shook his head.

Now, after Anthony’s death, she begins to think there is no reason why she should wed at all. There are stories of women who fought, and did not marry. There are not very _many_ stories—most men and women, even soldiers, seem to marry eventually—but there are some. And it is evident from the books the governess hides that even unmarried women sometimes have romances, so clearly being married and being in love are not necessarily linked. She does not see why she should marry anyone, for protection or any other reasons. It is not as if there are not enough Pentaghasts.

A marriage would restrict her choices. Even if it were a pleasant marriage, perhaps more so if that was the case, it would distract her from her goal. She is determined: she is going to hunt apostates. She will not allow a marriage to hamper these plans.

The suitors continue to visit, however, despite her wishes. One of the last ones is quite a few years older than she is, a handsome young man with a narrow face. He is more persistent than most, and manages to get her to say a few words. He drinks a great deal at dinner and does not seem to notice her awkwardness. He is friendly and pleasant, and after dinner asks her to walk on the balconies with him. She sighs internally, thinking that she would much rather be practicing with her sword, but it is too early for her to escape. She supposes she might as well do as he asks; it will pass the time, and his presence is not as terrible as that of some of the others.

He asks her about dragon hunting, and she is able to answer some of his questions because Anthony taught her so much about it. By then they have strolled down to the shadows at the far end of the balcony; she turns to go back.

And he catches her shoulders, and attempts to kiss her.

She did not _mean_ to push him off the balcony. She did not exactly _push_ him off the balcony. But after all the sword practice, she is much stronger than she looks, and furious, and her fist staggers him, and he is falling back, and then it is too late. It is fortunate that there were bushes below, and all he suffers is a broken arm.

Her uncle does not trouble her with suitors again for some time after that.

*           *           *

She has learned all that she thinks is necessary about templars. Templars guard the mages in the Circles. Templars hunt apostates, and kill them. It is obvious to Cassandra that she must become a templar. She tells Nomi so.

“But Cassandra,” says the sister, “why do you want to become a templar? You are a Pentaghast.”

Cassandra hesitates. She does not want to admit to Nomi that she seeks vengeance, for she knows that Nomi will disapprove. But she will not lie. “The Chantry needs templars,” she says. “I love the Maker. I want to serve. But I don’t want to be a sister.” It is all true, as far as it goes. “You can speak for me. You can tell the templars that I would be a good student.”

Nomi looks at her and sighs. “You cannot be sent to the templars without your uncle’s permission,” she says. “I will speak to him.”

 _You are a Pentaghast_. Even Nomi, who has known her since she was little, is intimidated by her name, though in Cassandra’s experience there are few in her family who live up to the stifling expectations that accompany it. If it were not something she shared with Anthony, Cassandra thinks, she would wish that it was not her name at all.

 _It does not matter what the other Pentaghasts do_ , says Anthony. _You can make_ your _name something to be proud of_.

And she will. She will serve the Maker. She will be known as a great hunter of apostates.

It is some days later when she is brought into her uncle’s presence. “Sister Nomi says that you wish to become a templar,” he says, frowning.

“Yes,” she says.

He stares at her. “Templars... templars have brutal lives, child. Why do you wish to be a templar?”

It has not occurred to her that he might question her. But she will tell the truth to him as she did not to Nomi. He liked Anthony, she thinks. He will understand. “I want to find the apostates who killed Anthony,” she blurts out.

“Cassandra, they are long gone,” he says gently. “No one even knows who they were.”

“No one _cares_ who they were,” she says, her voice rising. “King Markus never really tried. No one tried. He doesn’t care about Anthony. No one cares except me. It’s not _right_.” By now she is shouting.

Something in his face moves. “Child—”

“I know I might not find them,” she says more quietly, and is furious to find her voice trembling. “But someone has to try. And if I can’t find them, I can still find other apostates and stop them. Someone has to stop them. I can do that. I _can_.”

There is a long silence. “We will talk of this again later,” Vestalus says with finality, and with that she has to be satisfied. But her anger and frustration burn. They feel like fire running under her skin.

 _Do not worry. You will succeed_ , says Anthony. _One way or another, you will find a way_.

*           *           *

Two months later, Vestalus calls her to him. “I have made arrangements for you,” he says. “You will be apprenticed to the Seekers of Truth.”

She stares at him. She knows very little of the Seekers; they have been mentioned in her lessons, but only briefly. “I want to be a templar,” she says, scowling.

“Most templars guard the circles, and never travel,” says her uncle calmly. “The Seekers are more powerful. They are tasked with protecting the Chantry; they investigate threats, and that includes the threats posed by apostates. You have said that this is what you wish to do; the Seekers are more suitable for your aims than the templars. The Chantry agrees. I have arranged for you to join the order at Montsimmard. You will leave in two weeks.”

It is a shock. Cassandra is not sure what she thinks about this, but it seems that she had no choice in the matter. Not that she has ever had a choice in what happens to her, she thinks bitterly. She has been tossed about by circumstance like a woodchip in an ocean storm. She has never been given a choice in even the simplest things; she has been expected to be a proper Nevarran princess, and nothing more. She has had to fight Vestalus for everything she wants, and in the end it is still his choice as to how she will hunt apostates, and not hers.

 _You will be free when you are older_ , says Anthony. _Then you will be the one who will make choices_.

She asks her tutor about the Seekers, and learns a little more, though he does not know a great deal and tells her that little is known outside the order as to exactly what they do. But it is clear that they sometimes do pursue apostates; what her uncle told her is true in that regard at least.

Perhaps it will not be so terrible. But it is the culmination of a lifetime of being denied choices, and she is ferociously angry that she has yet again been set on a path by someone else’s decision. When she says goodbye to her uncle, she is stiff and unforgiving. She does not expect to return, and does not want to. 

**The Apprentice**

The trip took almost four weeks, but apart from two attacks by bandits held little excitement, and the soldiers Vestalus had sent to protect the party made short work of them. And so they arrived in Montsimmard.

The Seeker fortress was tall and dark and imposing, but to a child reared in Nevarra City and the Grand Necropolis, it seemed very plain and dull. It smelled of stone and ancient wood and mildew. They arrived late in the evening; she was taken to a guest room with her attendant, given a plate of cold food, and left alone to sleep. The noble who had accompanied her on behalf of Vestalus, a tall remote woman, told her that she would be formally received in the morning.

And so it was. The attendant woke her early, and shortly thereafter bread and watered wine arrived. She did not eat any; her stomach roiled.

 _You are strong_ , said Anthony.

Lord Seeker Aldren was in residence in Montsimmard at the time, and it was he who greeted her when she was taken to his office; there were others there but he did not introduce them. “We do not usually accept candidates who are as old as you are,” he said, “but your uncle assures us that you have received a good education, and a considerable amount of martial training as well. Is that so?”

She had thought that Vestalus was unaware of the training, beyond the little required for self-defence. “My brother trained me, mostly in swordplay,” Cassandra said, “He was a dragon hunter.”

The Lord Seeker nodded. “Your uncle also said that you wished to be a templar, but he feels that the calling of a Seeker would be more appropriate for you. Why did you wish to be a templar?”

Cassandra hesitated. “To fight for justice,” she said finally. It was the truth, if not the whole truth; but she suspected that absolute honesty would not serve her in this.

Aldren nodded. “I think that is not all of it,” he said, “but we will let that lie. It is a good aim; take care that you remember it.” He nodded at one of the others, and the man stepped forward. “This is Byron,” he said. “Each candidate has a mentor; you will be his apprentice. If you have questions, he is the one you should go to. You will be learning in classes with other students, taught by a number of different masters, but you will also spend time with Byron.

“The titles you bear outside are not important in Montsimmard. All are equal in their beginnings here, no matter what their birth or privilege, and it is expected that you will treat all as equals. Here you will only be known as Cassandra; your rank elsewhere is not relevant. We take students based on their quality, not their lineage. Do you understand?”

Cassandra nodded. “Good,” said the Lord Seeker. “I welcome you to Montsimmard; work hard and become everything you are capable of. Byron, take your charge.”

Byron smiled at her. He was old, probably over forty, and had a weathered, pleasant face. “Come with me, Cassandra,” he said. “We will find your place in the barracks and get you the things you need for training.”

She nodded again, politely took her leave of the noble who had accompanied her, and turned to follow Byron further into the fortress.

Byron began by showing Cassandra her bunk in the barracks; no one else was there. “They are with the history master now,” he said. “You will meet them at the mid-day meal. Put your things in your trunk and then I will show you the rest.”

Cassandra had been told that she would have very little space, and given a list of items to bring; it was not difficult to find a place for all of them in the trunk. The one thing that would not fit was Anthony’s sword. She looked at Byron, worried.

“This cannot be your sword,” he said; “it is too big for you. Why did you bring it?”

“It is my sword,” she said furiously. “I have been practicing with it.”

He looked at her. “Why did someone give you an oversized sword?” he said, frowning.

“It was my brother’s,” she said, scowling.

“Ah,” he said. “Your brother the dragon hunter?” She nodded. He seemed to think for a moment, and then said, “You will not be allowed to train with it until you are bigger; using a sword that is too large can affect change the way your muscles develop, and that can affect your skill. And students your age are not allowed to practice with unblunted swords. So you will have to put it away for now. I can have it stored in the armoury.”

“No!” She looked at him in panic. She could not bear the thought of being parted from Anthony’s sword, or of having it kept in such a public place.

He frowned again, and then said, “If you prefer, I can store it in my quarters. It will be safe there, and you will be able to see it every day when you meet with me. Will that be acceptable?”

 _He seems a good man_ , said Anthony. _He will look after it_.

“Yes,” said Cassandra, sagging with relief.

For the rest of the morning Byron showed her through the fortress and explained what would be expected of her. The apprentices rose very early, washed and ate, and then there would be an hour spent with one’s mentor. Then there would be lessons until the mid-day meal, and more lessons afterward. There would be another brief meeting with their mentor, and then the evening meal. There would often be assigned readings or other work to occupy the rest of the evenings. One day a week was a rest day, but there were chores assigned for that day as well. Cassandra began to wonder if the apprentices ever had time to themselves; but still, she had come to learn, and it seemed that they were serious about it. That was good. The more time she spent learning, the sooner she would be a Seeker, and pursuing apostates.

She was introduced to the other apprentices at the mid-day meal; Byron had explained the routines of the refectory, and after she had her bowl took her to a table. There were only seven apprentices that were her own age; these were the ones with whom she was seated. “You will take classes with your age-mates,” Byron had said earlier. “It is usual for candidates to be apprenticed at a much younger age; most of them have been here for some years. There will likely be things you know that they do not, and things they know that you do not; we will see what those are and if you need extra training in some areas we will make arrangements.”

The apprentices did not look particularly welcoming, but not hostile either; their faces were perfectly polite and neutral. “I will leave you now,” said Byron. “Go with them to the classes after the meal. I will see you tomorrow morning; can you find your way to my quarters?”

“Yes,” said Cassandra, who had carefully memorized the route.

When he left, she began to eat, nervously keeping her face fixed on her stew. The room smelled of old cooking oil and unfamiliar spices, but the food was good. The others said nothing for a bit, and then one, a short boy Bryon had called Jonas, said, “What’s your name, then?”

“Cassandra,” she said.

“We know _that_ ,” said a girl scornfully. Was her name Sleet? Cassandra couldn’t remember. “Byron said. But Cassandra what?”

She didn’t want to say her last name; her instinct was that it was unlikely to do her any good. But she had been asked directly. “Pentaghast,” she said.

There was a short silence. “Well, that won’t help you here,” said Jonas dismissively. “You’ll make it or not on your own skill.”

She nodded. That was all right.

“Why are you so old?” said a second girl. “We all started when we were six.”

“They hadn’t planned this for me,” said Cassandra. “But I asked.” They nodded.

“Why are there only seven of you, but so many younger apprentices?” Cassandra said then, hoping to steer the questioning away from herself. “Were there just fewer candidates that year?”

Another boy laughed. “Not likely. It’s because so many fail every year. You may be able to buy a chance to study to become a Seeker, but you can’t buy the right to be a Seeker.” There was something nasty and insinuating about his tone. Cassandra said nothing. There was nothing to say. She would succeed. She was strong.

*           *           *

Seeker training was not at all what Cassandra had expected. She had assumed that there would be martial training, and indeed there was; and the Master, after examining her skills, had remarked that she had an excellent grounding in the basics.

The insinuating boy was named Scarth. He and Sleet were like peas in a pod, a nasty pod, Cassandra thought. Scarth was a husky boy who was big for his age, strong but not quick, and when the trainer paired them she did not find it difficult to disarm him. “She uses skill rather than brute force,” the trainer said, “and achieves more. In the long run it is far more effective than relying on strength. Let this be a reminder to you all.”

Scarth was furious, as he had previously been the group’s acknowledged champion, and from that point on she had an enemy. And more than one, for Sleet agreed with him in all things. They began a subtle campaign against her. There was surreptitious name-calling; Cass-Cass-Panty-Ass was the politest. She quickly learned never to leave her belongings unattended. Clothing would acquire stains. Books would have rude drawings in them, or ink would be spilled in their pages. She came very close to losing the right to take books from the Seeker library, but Byron intervened. She suspected that he knew exactly what was happening, because he soon provided her with an excellent lock for her trunk.

Jonas was generally neutral, but also easily influenced, and although she didn’t think he participated in the harassment with her belongings, he did laugh and encourage the name calling, seeming to think it was all a fine joke. The other four students—Briseis, Niala, Raoul and Sandor—seemed more inclined to be friendly, but were wary of Scarth, and made no direct overtures.

The group had already well-established dynamics, and Cassandra stood outside it. This left her isolated, but for the most part she did not care. She was used to being alone. And she had Anthony. _You do not need others_ , said Anthony, _if you are strong and true to yourself_.

And she also had Byron, whom she rapidly came to respect immensely. Her lessons might be dull at times, but her daily meetings with Byron never were. He spoke to her as if she were an adult, expected her to respond thoughtfully, listened attentively to the things she said, and addressed them with serious consideration. He treated her, in short, as if there were simply some gaps in her knowledge that he could provide information on. And he asked how Anthony had trained her. It was hard to talk about her brother, but talking about the training was easier, especially to someone who was so clearly interested.

Her studies were more frustrating. Her masters’ verdict on her education up to that point was that she excelled in some areas—she had an excellent grounding in etiquette, genealogy, and the basics of weapon training and combat—but that her other knowledge was spotty, particularly that relating to religion, despite the time she had spent in the Chantry. “It is hardly surprising,” said one, “as the training of Seekers delves into areas that are not considered relevant to the education of nobles. You will need to do extra studying if you are to catch up.”

Scarth and Sleet somehow learned of what had been said, and made rhymes about her stupidity. But that did not bother her. What upset her was that the masters decided that the time spent on making up the knowledge she lacked should be taken from her combat training. As this was the only thing she valued that she was seen to be good at, it hardly seemed fair. And even more importantly, it delayed the advance in her skills that would allow her to achieve her goals.

But she had no choice. Again.

 _Did you think you had learned everything already?_ said Anthony. _Learning never ends. A good student accepts teaching wherever it is given._

But this was very hard to accept, and her fury simmered in resentful silence.

She ignored the name-calling, the insults, for the most part. They were fools, and could not touch her. But then Scarth made a scornful comment about her dragon-hunting brother.

She did not remember attacking him. She did not remember their fight. She only remembered the aftermath, when the other apprentices pulled them apart and she came to herself with three of them holding her down. By then Scarth had a bloody nose, and she had scrapes and bruises, though she did not really feel them till the next day. They had intervened, Sandor told her years later when they were reminiscing about their days as apprentices, because the savagery of her attack had frightened them badly.

After that Scarth and Sleet were more careful. The name-calling continued, but no one said anything about her brother again, and she ignored it. She did not like what had happened to her, the way she had lost herself, and she was determined that it would not happen again. Byron regarded her bruises and said only, “Is there anything you need to speak to me about?” She shook her head, and he did not push, though she was aware that he watched her carefully for some time thereafter.

But despite her efforts, she still could not set aside her anger.

*           *           *

Her days were very full, leaving time for nothing else. But she had a goal, and her need to achieve it, coupled with her anger at being balked, made her impatient. She began to creep out of the barracks at night, to take a training sword from the armoury and practice the routines that Anthony had taught her. It was not so much that she thought it would make up for the lack of instruction; it was that regular practice was a part of what she believed would help her achieve her aims. The ritual of the training, the physical surge of strength and power, had become such a part of her life that she could not let it go. After a couple of weeks of this someone caught her. Being out of the barracks at night was a serious offense, and she was taken before the Lord Seeker.

“You are out after curfew,” he said. “The guard reports that you were practicing a training routine, but that is no excuse. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Cassandra could not think of a thing to say, and stood wordless. She had known that she was breaking the rules. But Byron, who had arrived soon after she was brought before the Lord Seeker, spoke then.

“Cassandra is not receiving weapons training at this time,” he said, “because the masters have decided that her skills in this area are unusually well developed for her age, and there are other things in her education that need more attention. But she has done such training every day since she was very little. It is important for her to keep these skills up, and her strength, in the absence of formal training. It is also part of what her brother taught her, and she honours him in its execution. I respectfully request that these things be considered in your judgment.”

“Indeed,” said the Lord Seeker thoughtfully. He regarded her for a little while, and then said, “It is indeed important that these skills be maintained, but the matter of the curfew cannot be ignored. Neither can the fact that you practiced unsupervised, which is forbidden, and did not ask for an exemption, or come to your mentor for help with the matter. Do you understand that this is what you should have done, Cassandra?”

“Yes, ser,” she said. She did not know why asking Byron for help had not occurred to her, but it had not. The habits of solitude and secrecy had become too ingrained.

“And you will bring issues of concern to me in the future, will you not?” said Byron.

“Yes, ser.”

“This is my judgment, then,” said the Lord Seeker. “With regard to the practice routines, we will allow you to continue, with conditions. You will receive an exemption from the curfew at specific times, in order to practice. But practicing is the only thing that the exemption will apply to; if you are found doing anything other than practicing, that exemption will be revoked. Byron will supervise you, and may offer instruction if he chooses to correct what you are doing. And you must demonstrate that you are capable of continuing without it affecting other parts of your education. If the quality of your work in other areas drops, the exemption will be revoked.

“You will also serve the armourer for at least one hour a day, doing whatever tasks he sets you, for the term of three months. You will do this in your free time; you will consult with the armourer as to how this may be arranged. You will serve him well, and his evaluation of your service will be a consideration when we determine whether you shall be allowed to continue your exemption from the curfew after your term of service is ended. Is that clear?”

“Thank you, Lord Seeker,” whispered Cassandra. It was more than she had expected, more than she could have wished.

*           *           *

If she had thought that her punishment was light she was quickly disabused of that notion. Byron agreed to supervise her practice on three days of the week, and she agreed to practice the routines only when he was there. This was acceptable. But the extra hour of work at the armoury cut into the time she normally spent studying, which meant that she had to find it elsewhere; she could have cut back on the studying, but she was not willing to do so. She was behind the others, and did not like it. After the first two weeks she was operating in a haze of fatigue, though she did her best to hide it from everyone. She suspected that Byron knew perfectly well what state she was in; during one practice session he commented after she had executed a move clumsily that he expected she would do better when she was not required to serve the armourer, and was better rested.

 _You can do this_ , said Anthony, and she persevered. This was only for three months; she could manage for that long. The exemption from curfew provided a pathway to what she desired, and she would not allow fatigue to prevent her from achieving it.

Byron seemed to take the practice sessions as seriously as she did. While he did not formally train her, he watched her critically, offered tips on improving her technique, and occasionally taught her new routines. She loved it.

She did not love the work in the armoury, which stank of iron and fire and hot oil. The armourer, Gaston, was a gruff, cantankerous man who was clearly annoyed that he had to deal with an apprentice whom he could not treat with the same roughness with which he handled the two elves who worked under him, Teras and Harel. Their status was better than that of the elven servants, but not by much. When he was displeased with their work he struck them; but he could not do the same to a Seeker apprentice. And despite the fact that he gave her only the most menial tasks, he often seemed displeased with Cassandra’s work. She had hoped that she would learn something about the making of armour from him, or at least more about its maintenance and repair, but for the most part her duties consisted of cleaning and polishing armour after he had completed work on it, or mending leather or fabric components. The experience with needlework did come in handy, but she enjoyed it no more than she had when she was learning it with her governess.

The elves regarded her sidelong, with suspicion, and said nothing to her that they did not have to, and the armourer spoke even less than that. She worked in silence, dreaming, telling herself stories of the future. _The things that try you will make you stronger_ , said Anthony. She supposed it was true. It was a shame that the things that made you stronger were so boring.

On the last day of her service there was a flurry of activity; a Seeker had returned to the fortress, along with a company of soldiers, and as they had been on the road for some time there were a great many repairs needed. Gaston made it clear that he expected Cassandra to stay beyond the hour she normally spent, and work until the repairs were done. She thought that it would never end.

She was close to finished when the master armourer required assistance of one of the elven servants, who shoved what he was working on into Cassandra’s hands and said, “Finish this.”

It was a breastplate that had taken damage to its leather strapping; the elf had half-finished the meticulous work required to secure the buckles. Cassandra sighed. She hated this sort of repair; it was fiddly and awkward and inevitably ended in punctured fingers. And she had already worked an hour past her normal quitting time; if she worked much longer she would miss her practice session with Byron, even if she skipped her meal. Well, she would just have to be quick.

She finished it in time, though she knew it was not her best job; if she had wanted to be honest with herself she would have admitted that it was carelessly done. But she did not wish to think about that. It was done. It would do. She set her tools down and hung the breastplate on the stand for finished pieces, and took her leave of Gaston and the elves for the last time.

Two days later she happened to pass one of the armoury elves, Teras, in the training yard, and he muttered something in Elvish, including a word that she recognized as a curse, and gave her a look of active loathing that baffled and annoyed her. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded angrily.

He stood still—an elf did not disrespect a human—but he ducked his head and refused to look at her. “What do you mean?” she repeated.

And then he brought his head up, and his eyes were cold and not at all cowed. “The Seeker who returned took her repaired breastplate back,” he said bitterly, “and when she was sparring the straps failed, and she was hurt. It was not serious, but if it had been a real fight it could have been. She complained to the master. The master knew that Heral had taken the breastplate to mend, and punished him for his carelessness. But you are the one who mended that breastplate.”

“I—” Cassandra did not know what to say. “But why did he punish Heral? Did he not tell the master that it was me?”

“He tried,” said the elf, “but the master did not care. He said that Heral should have checked your work. He was drunk and angry at the time, and did not hold his hand. And now Heral is in the infirmary, with broken bones and burns from the poker the master struck him with, and no way to work, and a family to feed.”

“But that is wrong!” said Cassandra, appalled.

The elf laughed without humour. “Wrong? _Someone_ had to be punished. Do you think he would punish _you_? You are an apprentice. And a Pentaghast.” And he turned on his heel and walked away.

Cassandra stood very still. She did not know what to do. It was unjust that Heral had been punished for her carelessness. She should go to the armourer and confess that it had been her work.

But if she did, he would speak poorly of her to the Lord Seeker. And Lord Seeker Aldren had said that the armourer’s words would be considered when deciding whether to extend the exemption from the curfew that allowed her to practice under Byron’s supervision.

The elf had already been punished; confessing would not change anything for him. And it could do her a great deal of harm.

She decided to think about the problem before deciding what to do. But she slept uneasily that night. The next day was busy, and she had no time to go to the armourer, and so was the day after that. But something had its teeth in her guts, and she could not settle comfortably.

And Anthony said nothing at all to her.

On the third day, without thinking about it, she made her way to the armourer’s smithy. Gaston was working on a set of greaves, hammering out a dent. She stood and waited until he indicated that he had noticed her. “What?” he said.

“The breastplate that failed,” she said faintly. “I was the one who repaired it, not Heral.”

He stopped hammering and looked at her. “So?”

“If there is punishment, I should be the one to receive it,” she said.

“It’s a little late for that,” he said. “And in any case, he handed the work off to you. He should have checked it.”

“But—” said Cassandra.

“Enough,” said the master in irritation. “It is done.” And he began to hammer again.

The other elf, Teras, had observed the whole thing; he scowled at her. She stopped to speak to him. “Will the master take Heral back when he is healed?” she asked softly.

“No,” said Teras, and turned away. She stood helplessly waiting for him to say more, but he ignored her.

There was a sickness in her stomach that she could not shake. She went to the Chantry and prayed, and then prayed longer, but it did not help. The flame wavered in her sight, and the light it cast on her was no longer sure and steady; she felt as if there were shadows on her.

She had promised to bring her troubles to Byron. This was certainly a trouble. She had done something wrong, and another had suffered for it. There must be a way that wrong could be righted, but she did not know how—her attempt to intervene with Gaston had done no good. Perhaps Byron would be able to help her.

He had tasks that day that had caused him to cancel his normal afternoon meeting with her, so she had to wait, and spent a mostly sleepless night. The next morning she was early for their meeting, and after greeting him, she said, “Something has happened, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell me,” he said, and it poured out of her.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” she said at last. “I went to Gaston and told him it was my fault, and he didn’t care. Teras says he will not take Heral back. But it’s _wrong_ ,” said Cassandra passionately. “I am the one at fault, not Heral.”

Byron looked at her and sighed. “The master armourer has authority as to his own servants. And he is right that Heral should have checked your work.”

Cassandra said, barely audible, “Teras said that he would not punish me because I am an apprentice, and a Pentaghast.”

“And likely it is true,” said Byron. “The Lord Seeker told you that your name does not matter here, and to some degree that is correct; but it does matter in part even here, and will always matter in most of Thedas.”

“I don’t _want_ it to matter!” cried Cassandra.

“What you want is not relevant,” said Byron. “It will happen. You will always be seen as a Pentaghast, for good or evil. The consequences of action—or inaction—will be different for you than others because of it. You cannot change that. Your only choice is to decide how you, Cassandra Pentaghast, will _act_.”

She stared at him. “But Heral is injured. He has a family. I—I don’t have money, my uncle is the steward of my estate. But my uncle sends an allowance to pay for things. If I asked maybe he would send more—”

“No,” said Byron. “That will not solve Heral’s problem. I will look into this. But Cassandra—it does not always take evil intentions to cause evil. And some mistakes cannot be fixed, once things are broken. Remember this.”

She swallowed hard. It _must_ be possible to fix things. If it was not...

“The Lord Seeker said that my exemption from curfew would only last if I served the armourer well. I haven’t. I should lose my right to practice.”

The Seeker looked at her, long and carefully. “I think not,” he said eventually, and nothing more.

It was almost worse than losing her exemption would have been.

In the end, a place was found for Heral and his family with a merchant in Val Royeaux who wanted someone who could repair leather and metal work that was damaged or broken. But it was not at the same level of skill and recompense as the employment that had been lost, and Cassandra knew it.

 _Do not make such a mistake again_ , said Anthony, in the darkest part of the night.

*           *           *

Time passed. Things changed, and did not. Cassandra studied hard, and after a year had caught up to her age-mates. But she had the habit of studying by then, and the masters had become accustomed to giving her extra help, and she continued to apply the same determination to learning that she always had. She was permitted to recommence weapons training, and excelled at it. An older student cohort, made up of different age groups, trained all together; their skills varied, but the variation provided new challenges and opportunities for instruction. Cassandra was allowed to train with this group as well as her own agemates, which infuriated Scarth, who for a time redoubled his harassment.

Anthony had taught her the use of sword and shield, as well as the daggers her uncle had authorized as suitable weapons for a lady, and this was where her greatest skill lay. But now she took up fighting with two blades. She could not say exactly why she did so; if pressed, she would probably have said that it was a good thing to become expert with more than one style, and that fewer fought this way, so fewer knew how to defend against it. And this was certainly true, but there was more to it than that. A second blade could be used as a shield, and must be, just as a shield could be used as a weapon. But a blade was made to attack, and a second blade was active in a way that a shield was not. Byron had said once that a good attack was a good defense, and she had taken it as a maxim. When she fought with two blades she felt as if she was fighting with her whole self, as if she was a flame of justice. She remembered her purpose. She was a hunter.

By now she had found a place in the society of her age-mates. Shy and reserved, she had little to say to them; but beyond the one fight, she did not respond to the attacks of Scarth and Sleet, who seemed baffled by her lack of reaction. It is hard to carry on a one-sided conflict convincingly; and as a result the others gradually began to accept her. Although they did not become close, they were friendly enough.

And then a master assigned Scarth to give her extra tutoring in history, the area in which she was weakest. Her initial reaction was disbelief, mixed with fury. Was the master such a fool as to be unaware of Scarth’s hatred of her?

Perhaps he knew, and did not care; Scarth was the best student at the subject, though she disliked admitting it. Arguing with the master might not be wise. But surely if she spoke to Byron he would convince the master to withdraw the order.

 _Take learning where you can find it_ , said Anthony. _You do not know when the world will test you_.

This gave her pause. Perhaps this was a test.

The first time they met Scarth looked no happier than she felt, and began tutoring her with a kind of aggressive defiance that both challenged and insulted her. But she had resolved to pretend that he had done nothing to her, and listened to what he said with attentive reserve and occasional questions. By the third lesson he had relaxed somewhat; he was clearly interested in the subject matter, and it distracted him from his hatred. The fifth lesson related to Nevarran history, and Cassandra expected to learn nothing new; but Scarth had information about King Caspar and his dragon hunting that she had never heard before, and she could not prevent her interest and enthusiasm from showing. She would have expected Scarth to leverage this knowledge of her interest, but in fact he only grinned at her.

The whole thing left her better disposed toward him than she had ever been. “There is a counter move to the maneuver that I used against you the last time we sparred,” she said diffidently at the end of the lesson. “If you like I can show it to you some time.”

He was not stupid. He stared at her distrustfully, and then said slowly, “All right.” And so the next time they trained together she showed him the move; and from that time on she was rarely able to use that particular maneuver against him successfully.

And gradually, after that, the harassment stopped.

*           *           *

Her studies required her to speak in front of others, to present her work. She hated it, but she understood that it was necessary: a Seeker must be able to speak to others, to question them, to interrogate and investigate, to explain the truth to those who did not see it. She studied rhetoric with grim determination, and eventually achieved some ability in it, though she never learned to speak extemporaneously with skill and fluency as some of the others did.

At least she could carry on a conversation now; it was an improvement over the tongue-tied child who had faced the suitors. But she understood very well that she was still clumsy with words, and disliked exposing her weakness.

And feelings—as far as feelings went, she was more than clumsy. She never seemed to be able to express herself clearly when it came to anything that she cared about deeply, and after a few misunderstandings she retreated into taciturnity as much as possible. It was better to remain silent; it was what people expected of her.

But the new ability to converse, even with the limitations her awkwardness set on it, helped her to make a friend. Alisande was one of the older students with whom she trained, a cheerful, friendly girl a year older than Cassandra. She did not treat younger apprentices with contempt the way some older students did, and did not seem worried by their opinions of a friendship with someone younger than herself. She made it clear that she liked the younger girl and enjoyed spending time with her.

It was the first time Cassandra had had a friend. There had been Anthony, of course, who had been friend and brother and mentor, but he had been much older than she. Ali was almost the same age, and it was very different. She talked endlessly about her family (she was the daughter of minor Ferelden nobles, with several brothers and sisters, both older and younger) and the other students and the masters and the politics of Thedas and the differences between religious belief and practices. She talked about everything. And although she left room for Cassandra to speak, and listened attentively if she did, she did not expect her to converse and was perfectly happy to carry most of the conversation herself. “Everyone says I am bold and talk too much,” she said one day, laughing.

“I like it,” said Cassandra, and then thought she had said too much. But Ali was grinning at her.

“And you are shy and hardly say anything, so we are a well matched pair!”

And Cassandra managed a smile, then ducked her head as she felt the tips of her ears flame.

Cassandra hated talking about Nevarra, partly because she wanted to leave it behind and partly because people seemed to have such odd ideas about it. They were upset by things that she took for granted, and then sometimes treated her with fear or disgust. She had learned to avoid speaking about her homeland. But Ali was intensely curious about it, and over time managed to draw her out a little. She did not seem disgusted by the things Cassandra told her, only intrigued. “There must be such wonderful things to see there,” she said. “I would love to visit Nevarra City some day, and see the Necropolis.”

“It is not so interesting, apart from the architecture,” said Cassandra dismissively, but she was oddly pleased by her friend’s comments.

“But I want to travel _everywhere_ ,” said the other girl. “There is so much to see in Thedas, and every place is different. Don’t you want to go to different places, to see what they are like?”

“I guess so,” said Cassandra. She had not really thought about it; when she had thought of travelling it was only in the pursuit of apostates. But if she wre to travel with a friend while she did so, perhaps it would be a pleasant thing to do.

But Ali was laughing at her. “You are too young to be such a stick in the mud!” she said. “I will have to carry you off with me, so that I can convince you that the world is not such a boring place!”

That would not be so terrible, thought Cassandra.

Cassandra was fourteen when Ali began to spend more time with Artos, a boy in her own age group. Cassandra hated him. He was a skinny lad who had begun to fill out, and she thought he was altogether too pleased with the improvement in his appearance. And he was one of those who treated younger students with dismissive contempt. But Ali saw something in him, though Cassandra could not imagine what, and something tentative and awkward had begun to build between them.

Ali shared all the excitement and heartbreak with her confidant. Cassandra did not like hearing of Artos. She did not like losing the time she and Ali spent together. She did not like the situation at all. But she had more sense than to show her dislike, her unhappiness, to the other girl; she simply became quieter, and as Ali had a great deal to talk about she didn’t notice.

It went on like that for some time, and then everything changed. Ali had been distracted for some days, and Cassandra could not understand why. Finally she simply asked. “I can’t say yet,” said her friend. “But I will tell you as soon as I can.”

It was three days later when they met, and she found Ali bubbling with happiness. “I can finally say,” she said. “I am being sent to finish my training with the Seekers at Val Royeaux, along with Artos.”

Cassandra stood very still. She was not entirely sure that her heart was still beating, and yet she was alive, or so it seemed. Ali was still talking, but she heard nothing.

She pulled herself together. “When do you leave?”

“In a week,” said Ali. “Oh, Cassandra, I shall miss you!” And she impulsively pulled the younger girl into a hug.

Cassandra hugged her back. She was warm, and solid, and gone. “I will miss you too,” she said, feeling absolutely nothing.

There were not many places in Montsimmard that one could truly find privacy, but Cassandra had managed to find a few. She did her tasks for the rest of the day and then retreated to one of them. She did not weep; she fought a battle with herself over it, but she did not weep. She went to the chapel and prayed until curfew sent her to the barracks. She lit the candles, passed her hand through the flame in the rituals. _You are the fire at the heart of the world_ , she prayed, _and comfort is only Yours to give_. There must be comfort somewhere, surely?

 _You are a flame_ , said Anthony. _You burn but you will not be consumed_.

She would not be consumed. She would never be consumed.

There was sword training on the next day; she took up the blunted blades and asked Harkness to spar. He was three years older than she was, and big; he was amiable in character, but also powerful and skilled. She had sparred with him occasionally, but never won a bout. She could fight him without holding back.

She lost herself in the sparring, her blades flashing. She felt elevated, she felt that she was moving while the world stood still, she felt as if nothing could touch her, as if she were a flame that hands could not hold. She held him off as she had never been able to do before, through the sheer force of her attacks; she fought through the fatigue that challenged her, and suddenly he was down, and someone caught her arm as she raised a blade, and threw her off balance; she turned to face this new attack, her teeth bared.

“Enough!” said Byron, still holding her arm, and she let it fall, and then dropped the blades from her hands and staggered as exhaustion hit her.

Harkness was picking himself up, looking battered. “Well done!” he said cheerfully, clouting her on the shoulder. “I couldn’t get through your attack at all today. Any time you want to spar again, let me know—we’ll see if you can do it twice.” And he ambled off.

Byron had not let go of her arm. He pulled her away from the sparring ring and into a quiet corner of the garden, and set her on a bench, then stood looking at her.

“No one expects that kind of attack from a fourteen year old,” he said, “but Harkness will not be so easy to fight next time.”

“If I beat him once, I can beat him again,” said Cassandra.

“You fought as a berserker today,” said Byron. “You gave yourself over to emotion and trusted your instincts instead of using strategy. It gave you strength, but it weakens you as well; a berserker has no defense beyond an overwhelming attack. Is this how you wish to fight?”

“If it works, why not?” said Cassandra defiantly. She was not sure why she was angry with Byron, but she was.

“Because as a berserker you will be less than you can be,” he said. “A berserker fights with their heart, but nothing else. You have the ability to fight with your mind, Cassandra, as well as your heart. You have tended to fight too much with your mind, but this goes too far the other way. You make yourself a weapon, but you need to be a _thinking_ weapon. If you can find a balance between heart and mind you will be unstoppable.”

She could think of nothing to say.

“Think on this,” said Byron, and walked away.

*           *           *

She had begun to wear Anthony’s jerkin when she was thirteen, when it was still too big for her, but by now she had grown into it. And more than grown into it: tailored for a lean man, it was had become uncomfortably tight in certain areas. She tried letting out her breath when fastening it, and for a time that worked, but eventually it was not enough, and she had to admit that it was not sensible to wear it.

She stared at her breasts and hated them. They meant that she must wear clothing made for women, or at the least, caused the need for inconvenient adaptations to the clothing she had. And worse, they meant that she wear armour made for women. Now they prevented her from wearing the jerkin that was one of the last things tying her to her brother, the jerkin that she had worn to hold him close.

And they attracted attention in ways she didn’t like. Everyone noticed. Even Ali had said something, laughing, about Cassandra now being even more womanly than she was.

There were times when she almost wished she was not a woman, if being a woman meant losing so much.

*           *           *

The Seekers provided other friends: not many, but enough to give her the safety and security she needed. Even Scarth had become a kind of friend. The Seekers were like family: individuals might dislike each other, or fight over issues of importance to themselves, and some would be closer than others, but they would all have your back in a fight. For Cassandra that trust had come to be absolute.

After Ali left Sandor seemed to want to spend more time with her, and she was glad of his companionship; but after a while he took up with Niala and she saw less of him, though they remained friends. She was perfectly capable of noticing romantic interest between others, and was aware of Sandor’s attraction to Niala. But she had not recognized his initial interest in herself; his attentions were tentative and not at all like the attentions of the suitors in her governess’s novels. It was not until years later, looking back, that she realized that he had been attracted to her.

The Seekers had strict rules about fraternization among the apprentices. They could not prevent affections from growing, but they did their best to manage them. Students were supposed to be learning to divest themselves of emotions in preparation for their vigils. Affections were accepted to some degree, but it was made clear to the apprentices that passionate relationships would threaten their ability to achieve their goals, and that they were expected to refrain from physical intimacy until they had undergone the vigil and been made full Seekers. After that, it was intimated, what they chose to do was up to them. Most of them understood, and although it went against their inclinations obeyed; but a few always could not or would not, and in they end were released from their apprenticeships and sent home.

If there were few grand passions at play within the Seeker fortress—or at least not among the apprentices—there were certainly plenty to observe elsewhere. Montsimmard was an important Orlesian city with significant numbers of resident nobility, and while the Great Game was perhaps not played with quite the level of lethal enthusiasm that was exhibited in Val Royeaux, it was still played with a dramatic intensity that incited the gossips. Even the younger apprentices heard the more romantic and scandalous and tragic stories, and shared them in shocked and excited whispers.

Cassandra still liked the _idea_ of romance in principle, but there were more important things to do. And the gossip she heard about Orlesian love affairs horrified and disgusted her. There were too many where a lover’s passion turned out only to be a tool to lure another into disadvantage, or take revenge on an enemy. A suitor claimed eternal love and then was seen secretly leaving a party with their consort’s rival. A jilted noble responded with passionate hysteria and then was seen two days later with a new lover. A popular marquis took pride in the number of virgins he could seduce. There was no honesty in it, no genuine caring: for the most part it was a performance. Occasionally someone would be truly hurt by the treatment of a false lover, and show it, and then the gossips would cluster, laughing; to be honestly hurt by the Game was to lose, and lose badly. The nobles themselves seemed to take these dramatic denouements in stride, but Cassandra never could.

Cassandra was aware that in Nevarra and other lands there was social jousting between rivals, the search for political advantage, but it was not the blood sport that it was in Orlais. This—this was unconscionable. True romance was a pure thing, fine and noble. It was the coming together of two hearts, two souls. It was not this this soiled pretense that twisted affection into something cruel and unfair. If this was how others saw romance she wanted nothing to do with it.

 _There is no honesty in the Game_ , said Anthony. _There is no justice_.

Seeker apprentices of fourteen and older were permitted unaccompanied excursions into the city proper, and Cassandra left the fortress from time to time, usually with one or more of her agemates. There was much to see and do in Montsimmard; its location on the Imperial Highway meant that it saw travellers from many races and nations. The market was always good for entertainment as well as sweets or pastries. They explored the rest of the city as well, venturing into the highest and lowest areas. Even in the poorest parts they were never in much danger; although they wore no markings, the plain unfashionability of their clothing, coupled with its quality, set them apart from the noble youths, merchants, and underclasses. And only a fool would chance harming a Seeker apprentice.

There were some fools, of course, usually noble youths wanting to pick a fight to impress their peers. The nobles generally lost, not having the benefit of the same level of martial training, but somehow achieved prestige from the attempt, and occasionally there were bloody noses on both sides. The boys they merely insulted in an attempt to provoke; the girls suffered from both insults and suggestive remarks. Cassandra, who was growing into a tall, powerful young woman, was insultingly importuned one time too many, and finally lost her temper. After knocking a few boys down and flattening one aristocratic nose she eventually acquired a reputation as a fighter with fists as well as swords, and was generally left alone. Byron, for his part, declined to notice any unexplained bruises or the scrapes on her knuckles.

But none of this was as important to her as her studies and her faith. She had a goal, a mission; and with Andraste’s blessing she would achieve it. Her mission was to serve the Maker through His servants, the Seekers. She would become the best hunter of apostates that the Seekers had ever seen. She would be the scourge of corruption. Her ambition was pure and her devotion was absolute. How could she not achieve it?

And it seemed that she was right, for when she was fifteen she was sent to a remote castle in the Blasted Hills for her vigil. No one, Byron told her when he bade her farewell, had been sent to their vigil at so young an age before; but she had done exceptionally well at her studies and was in many ways well ahead of her age group, and her focus and resistance to distraction had proved her suitability.

“You have achieved a great deal,” said Byron quietly, “but I will be honest with you. I am not certain that this is a good idea. You are still too angry, and have not entirely found your balance. But the Lord Seeker believes that balance will come through your vigil. I pray that it does.”

But Cassandra was so happy that she forgave him for his doubts, and hugged him fiercely when she left.

For a year, she was alone, separated from the life of the castle and the world around it. She spent the time in an enclosure that had been built into the greater castle but also separated from it. Her days were simple and straightforward. She rose before dawn, took her chamberpot to the midden, and rinsed it; if she encountered others she ignored them, and they avoided her. She collected two buckets of fresh water at the pump—one for drinking, one for washing—and brought them back to her room. Then she made her devotions. When she opened her door again there would be a small loaf of fresh bread, the only thing that she did not prepare herself from the supplies provided. After breaking her fast with the bread and water she would read from the Chant of Light and then practice meditation exercises on the readings. Unless the weather was bad she would spend the afternoon in the private garden that opened off her quarters; here she would practice her training routines and then meditate again. She would eat a little after sunset and then spend her time in devotions until it was time to sleep.

Every few days she would set out the containers that held her foodstuffs, and they would be replenished. She ate simply and lightly: grains and lentils, dried or fresh fruits, herbal tea, a little oil for the bread.

She thought of what Byron had said, but dismissed it. It was not anger that drove her, but faith and purpose, a faith and purpose that gave her strength and made everything simple. She found the meditative exercises designed to empty her of emotion, of ties to the world, easy to do. For the most part the solitude refreshed her. She was not lonely; she had Andraste and the Maker to accompany her. And Anthony.

But after she had been alone for four months she began to dream. In her dreams she saw Anthony die, again and again. The first time it happened she woke sick with terror, shaking and in a cold sweat, and barely found the chamber pot before she voided her stomach. The dreams returned on the following night, and the night after. She began to fear sleeping, but although she reduced her hours of rest as much as possible, her body would not allow her to avoid it entirely.

She found some relief in rage, in hatred; her anger fortified her against the fear. This would not stop her. No one could stop her. She would persevere. She would fight against everything that sought to impede her, even dreams. She would overcome. She would be a flame to stand against the darkness.

 _Let me go_ , said Anthony then, in a dream. She could feel him, standing behind her, though she could not see him.

 _No_ , she said. _Never_.

 _You know that I will always be with you_ , Anthony said a few days later from the mouth of a dragon. _You do not need to hold me to you_.

She turned away, stubborn and ungiving and angry. The dragon dissolved in a flare of ice crystals, screaming.

 _Open your hands_ , he said.

 _I can’t_ , she said. _Anthony, I can’t_.

 _Do not hate me_ , he said, and she woke again, crying out.

By the time six months had passed she had lost a good deal of weight. Exhausted, she could not focus on the meditative exercises. She could no longer divest herself of emotion; she was adrift in a sea of rage and fear. She could not calm herself. She could not understand how to find her way back.

It came to a head one day when she lost her grip on the chamberpot and dropped it. When she regained her self-control everything in the room that was breakable was broken. She wrapped her arms around her head and wept, angry, hot, messy tears, her face red and ugly, snot running from her nose, sobs that were closer to howls, curled into a tight ball on her pallet.

When it was over she lay there for a while and then got to her feet and dully collected the broken crockery, the shards of wood, and made a pile outside her door. The spilled foodstuffs she swept up and carried to the midden. There would be no meal for her that night; there was nothing left to eat. She refilled the water buckets, did her best to wash the floor, and then emptied the dirty water from the wash bucket and refilled it again.

And through it all she could not prevent the tears that leaked from her eyes from falling. She did not try to do her exercises, or make her devotions. When she finished cleaning up as best she could, she simply lay on her pallet, wide-eyed and afraid.

 _Cassandra_ , said Anthony when she fell helplessly into sleep, the candle she had lit as a ward guttering. _Little sister_. Her eyes were shut. She could feel his hand holding hers. _It’s all right_ , said Anthony. _It’s all right_. He stroked her hair, gentling her. She remembered him doing that when she had had nightmares when she was very young. She remembered how it had made the fear gradually flow out of her, until there was nothing left of it, and felt something release.

 _I love you_ , she said to him. _I miss you_. She felt his hand tighten on hers, and a kiss on her cheek, and then she slipped further into sleep and he was gone. There were no other dreams that night.

She woke late in the morning, more rested than she had been in weeks, but still feeling exhausted. She was not sure what would happen now. Perhaps they would see the mess, the destruction, and decide that she had failed, that she would never be a Seeker. But in the end, when she opened the door, she found new crockery, new supplies of food, and a new chamberpot.

She found the replacement of her belongings without comment strangely comforting. Perhaps it was not so unusual for those enduring a vigil to have a crisis that involved a certain degree of violence.

After that things were not so hard. The nightmares about Anthony’s death stopped, and she began to regain her equilibrium, though it sometimes felt a little precarious. Much of her rage had drained away with her fear, though she knew some still lurked in dark corners. She felt half-emptied by its disappearance, and looked to her faith to fill the spaces it left. She followed the rituals and began to make her devotions in the mid-day as well as morning and evening. She read the Chant of Light over and over, and meditated on its meaning. She did the exercises that opened her heart and mind and emptied and then filled her. She began to lose herself, and she could not find words for what filled her then. She began to feel that she truly had become a flame, a flame that burned on solid stone, unfed by anything but faith.

She had lost all sense of time by the end of the year. She opened the door one morning to find only a dark robe, neatly folded, and knew what it meant. She spent the day in prayer, fasting, and in the evening when a knock came on the door she stood stiffly, put the robe on over her clothes, and emerged. A hooded figure waited for her and led her to a small chamber, gestured her in, and disappeared. Two more hooded figures waited; they took her arms and led her to stand in the centre of the room. Someone began to speak; she could not make out the words. And then there was darkness, and light.

The details of the Seeker ritual were a secret, as were those of the ritual that created Templars, and she never spoke of it afterwards. She was not sure she could have done so even if it had been permitted. She did not have the words to explain. There was emptiness, and then fullness. There was the absence of emotion, and then a surfeit of joy. There was darkness, and then light. There was a loneliness she had never imagined, and then the warmth of love. There was a presence. There was— It did not matter. In the end her faith sat solid and sure and buttressing inside her, and that was all that mattered.

She never knew who the other participant had been, but the Lord Seeker Aldren had been one of the officiants at the ritual, and congratulated her after it was over. Dazed, Cassandra could barely focus on his words. She felt as if something had touched her and left her skin and mind ablaze, flames flickering into nothing and reforming. But her confusion must be normal, for the next morning when she woke she found a long, formal letter from the Lord Seeker, with orders and explanations. She had to read it several times before she understood it. Although now fully a Seeker, she would still require training; she would need to learn to use the new abilities that the ritual had granted her. She would remain at Montsimmard for three months—newly made Seekers required a period of adjustment after so long in isolation—but after that she was being sent to Val Royeaux. She would continue to train, and would also take part in Seeker missions as a junior.

It was hard to take in. But the thing that gave her the greatest joy, the thing that she focused on first, was the news that Byron was there, waiting for her. He would continue to mentor her for the three months and then travel with her to Val Royeaux. She dropped the letter and dashed out to find him; a servant directed her to his rooms. She was astonished at her own reaction when he opened the door to her; she found herself, suddenly, with her arms flung around him, sobbing into his shoulder. He seemed the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become altogether too intense and confusing. He did not seem surprised, or taken aback; he hugged her, congratulated her, and told her how happy he was that she had completed her vigil successfully.

The next weeks were difficult. Cassandra felt as if her skin had been peeled off and inexpertly put back, leaving cracks through which too much could get in or out. She no longer knew how to interact with the world; sometimes she thought she never would be able to do so again. She was reactive and could not seem to rein in her emotions. Byron was a rock through her readjustment, exuding a restful placidity as he taught her to use the new skills that the ritual had bestowed on her. “Calm yourself,” he would say firmly when her feelings threatened to undo her, and she would take a breath and use the meditative techniques she had practiced during the vigil until she had relaxed again.

She had expected some difficulty with coping with the world after so long in quiet solitude, but this was much worse than she had anticipated, and three months was not really long enough to readjust. Cassandra still felt flayed as they rode to Val Royeaux, felt precariously unstable, but she stubbornly forced herself to deal with it. The calming exercises helped, as did prayer. It would become easier.

**The Seeker**

Val Royeaux was even worse than Montsimmard: the Game was played more intensely and the reek of perfume and politics infused every corner. It was a shock after the year of isolation. But this was the headquarters of the Seeker order; it was to be expected that there would be more activity and many more people.

There were still lessons. There was more time with Byron, who now began to take her with him on missions, so that she could put her learning into practice. She was allowed to conduct investigations and interrogations under his guidance. Sometimes the missions were with Byron alone, sometimes in groups, often with other pairs of mentors and the newly-made Seekers who had been their apprentices. It was interesting and challenging as she saw theory applied and began to understand that things were rarely as simple as theory made them.

She had thought that she might see Ali when she came to Val Royeaux; she was not sure how she felt about that. The other girl was still in residence there, and had also passed her vigil and been made a full Seeker. She was away on a mission when Cassandra arrived, and returned some weeks later. By then Cassandra had begun to adjust to her new status and environment and felt more secure in herself.

Ali gave her a delighted, affectionate greeting, hugging her enthusiastically and congratulating her on her achievement. “No one has stood their vigil at such a young age before!” she said. “You are amazing!” Cassandra blushed and ducked her head, and Ali laughed. “And still shy, I see.” And then she caught Cassandra’s hand and pulled her over to a bench and told her everything that had happened to her.

The romance with Artos had come to pass, after all, once they had completed their vigils, and Ali seemed very happy. “I don’t know if it will last,” she said, “as we are apart so often, but that is part of being a Seeker, I suppose. But for now... I’m very happy.” And it was clearly true, and Cassandra was genuinely glad.

But despite being delighted to see each other, they did not fall back into the old close friendship. It was somehow less comfortable, perhaps because Cassandra often felt inexplicably raw when with her, as she felt raw with so many things now, and could not find the old easy camaraderie. It was probably just another problem of readjustment, but it did not make being friends easier. And Ali had new responsibilities, and so did Cassandra. It was more difficult to spend time together, and in the end they rarely made the effort, and drifted apart. It made sense that this would happen, she thought. There were new acquaintances, new friends, pleasant to spend time with, though she did not become as close with any of them as she had with Ali. She sometimes wondered what her new friends thought of her: the youngest to undergo the vigil. The silent one who listened more than spoke. The one who thought only of her studies. Well, there was nothing wrong with that.

She killed for the first time, in a fight against a company of mercenaries that had turned rogue and prayed on travelling merchants. The woman died on her blade, convulsing. For a moment she froze— _the redness_ —and then she regained herself and turned to the next opponent. She did not look at the dead woman again.

Some new-made Seekers found their first kill difficult to deal with. But although the blood of her victim had unsettled her, she was less upset by the act than most. She had chosen to be a warrior; warriors killed. Death itself did not disturb her; she had seen too much in the Necropolis. And the act was necessary. The bandits had chosen to cross the boundaries of savagery to prey on others, and must be stopped; the people of Thedas must be protected.

She killed again in the course of her duties, and again; it was a violent world and the Seekers part of what gave it order, by any means possible. One killed when need required. She knew that some took pleasure in the act of killing, but she did not; for the most part it was only an unpleasant task. The thing she hated most about it was the smell, but there was nothing to be done about that. Her regret was for the lost soul, not for the act that took the life. _Maker take you_ , she prayed for them.

There were libraries, in Val Royeaux, where the Seekers kept records, including information on known apostates. She had searched them for something, anything, on the killing of her brother, and found nothing beyond a bare outline. What Vestalus had said was true: they were never able to find out the identity of the blood mages. The search had turned up only dead ends. There was no more she could do.

But there were other blood mages. And eventually she encountered one.

Cassandra was in Lydes with Byron when word came by message bird that a maleficarum had been seen in the area. “We are closer than any templars,” said her mentor. “We will see what we can do about this.”

Seeker training had included working with Circle mages in simulated combat, so Cassandra was not entirely inexperienced. But she forgot all of it when they came close to the mage’s camp, and he struck at them unexpectedly. Byron staggered, momentarily immobilized, and went to his knees. A shade moved towards him; Cassandra, howling in anger, whipped her blades through it, one, two; the shade screamed and disappeared. Then she felt a terrible pain, all at once, through her entire body, a pain that threatened to undo her. She struck out with her mind, with fury and all the power the vigil had granted her, and heard a scream. She followed the sound; the mage had fallen and was writhing on the ground. She struck again with her mind, heard the screaming turn into a raw animal sound, then struck with her blades, uncaring of where the blows landed, again, and again, and again.

After a time the mage stopped screaming. But she could not stop. There was nothing but the red, red everywhere, red on her hands and in her vision, the haze of red fury in her mind. Nothing else. There was only the red, and the striking. But eventually Byron’s voice slipped through the haze and found her. “Cassandra. Stop now. He is dead. Stop now. Cassandra.” She let her arms drop, panting, let the tips of her blades rest on the ground. There was red on them. There was red on her hands. There was a red thing before her that her mind could not understand. And then she recognized it. It had been a man. It was no longer a man. It was no longer anything. There was a coppery taste in her mouth, and the smell of burning.

She staggered away, and fell to her hands and knees, and vomited until she thought her stomach would turn inside out. There was a hand on her back, steadying her, when she began to come to herself again. Another hand held a waterskin out to her; she took it with shaking hands, drank, spat, and again, then swallowed a little. It hit her stomach with an uneasy twist, but it stayed down.

“Come,” said Byron, pulling her to her feet. “There’s a stream nearby.”

He stood watch at a little distance while she stripped and washed herself, then changed into her spare clothing, rinsed what she had been wearing, and cleaned her gear as best she could. She could not get all the stains out, but at least she no longer looked like she worked as a butcher.

There was still a slight tremble in her hands when she rejoined her mentor. “We’ll go on for an hour or two and then camp,” he said. She said nothing. She was exhausted; she could not imagine travelling for another couple of hours. But she did not want to stay near the blood mage’s camp. She swung into her horse’s saddle wordlessly.

She did not want to eat that night—she could still smell blood everywhere—but Byron insisted, and she did not have the energy to argue. And after she had eaten she did feel marginally better. She stood up, preparing to wash her cup and then take to her small tent, but Byron put out his hand to prevent her. “Sit down.” She sat.

Byron said nothing for a moment. Then, “It was a blood mage that killed Anthony, was it not?” She said nothing, only stared at the flames of their small fire. But then Byron’s hand caught her chin and pulled it around, forcing her to look at him.

“When you confront the demons of your past, it is easy to lose yourself in fear and hatred. And you are not the first to do so. But now you have seen what you are when you lose yourself. If you allow your anger to ride you like that you will not live long.” She blinked. At that moment living seemed like entirely too much work. “Cassandra,” he said gently. “Take the fear, the anger, and use it. Do not let it use you. Your emotions will not so easily take you by surprise again. You have the skills to control them. Use those skills.”

After a moment she nodded.

“Go to bed,” he said, and gave her a gentle cuff on the arm to send her on her way.

*           *           *

Back in Val Royeaux two weeks later, two of her friends talked her into going drinking with them. She was usually abstemious in her drinking habits, on principle—the Chantry condemned drunkenness, and she was determined and somewhat humourless in her practice of her faith. She also, perhaps more importantly, didn’t like its effects on her self-control. But that night she was not as careful as usual, and after she’d had an extra tankard of ale they teased out of her the fact that she and Byron had encountered a maleficarum. They did not get the whole story out of her—she said that she had been the one to kill the mage using her powers and her blades, but did not talk about the details of how she did it—but it was obvious that something about it had disturbed her. They bought her another round, sympathetically insisting that she drink it, and she was unsettled enough that she did.

She didn’t remember much more of that evening. It might have involved drinking another round after that. Or several. By her friends’ accounts later, she was at first even more silent than usual, and morose, and then she cheered up to an uncharacteristic degree and became unusually talkative, though as they were in their cups themselves by that time they could not tell her what she had actually said. She had a vague memory of wrapping one arm around Ursula and one around Dominic, hugging them violently, and telling them that they were her family. If she was the only one to remember that, she counted it as a blessing.

In any case, her friends got her back to her room safely. She felt fine when she woke the next morning. In fact, she felt wonderful.

For a little while.

The rest of the day, like the evening before, was something she preferred not to remember. It was, fortunately, mostly a day of rest; but she had a meeting with Byron in the late afternoon. She managed to take a little dry bread and water, prayed that it would stay down, and dragged herself to his rooms, white-faced and shaking. She got through the meeting, though half an hour after they parted she could not have told anyone what he said.

She suspected that Byron knew exactly what her problem was, as she caught him hiding a smirk when he thought she wasn’t looking. She thought this reaction showed a regrettable lack of kindness.

*           *           *

In the end she took Byron’s words about her attack on the blood mage to heart. He was right: she had lost herself entirely, and it had badly frightened her. She had been helpless against the surge of anger, unable to control herself. She had not been able to stop. It had been like the fight with Scarth, but in a much more dangerous context. She must therefore learn to guard against the things that could startle her into such reactions. She must learn to calm herself when something made her react. If she killed again—and she knew she would—the deaths must be clean and merciful. All deaths, even those of blood mages.

She was not sure that she could keep this resolution—when she thought of blood mages the red fury still rose—but she must try. Her service was to the Maker, not her own anger. She turned to her faith, and Andraste; with her intercession she would learn to do better.

It was not easy. Many years later she remembered that time, and thought that in the end it was loving Galyan that had made the difference. He had given her the chance to learn gentleness; it was in his nature.

But she did not meet him for some years after her vigil, and those years were a constant struggle. She was even touchier and more reactive than she had been before her vigil. Any encounter with blood mages seemed to loose the rage she held inside, though she was able to regain herself more quickly. She threw herself at all challenges—”You are too impatient!” said Byron—and bruised herself on things that would have done her no harm if she had been a little more careful. There was evil in the world; she would attack it. She could see no other way to be, no other way to try to make the world a better place; it was a compulsion, a need. Anthony had put a blade in her hand. She _would_ make the world a better place. It was all for Anthony, though Anthony rarely spoke to her now.

*           *           *

Her agemates from Montsimmard stood their vigils, and some eventually passed through Val Royeaux. Raoul had been discharged from the apprentices before coming to his vigil; Sleet had given up halfway through the year; Jonas had failed in his focus during the ritual itself, and did not receive the gift of skills that marked a Seeker. She never saw any of them again; she sometimes wondered vaguely what had happened to them. But Scarth, Sandor, Niala and Briseis were successful, and sometimes she encountered them in her travels, or at Seeker fortresses.

Inevitably, someone fell in love with her. Probably more than one person; but he was the first she knew of. He was a fellow Seeker, pleasant enough, but she was focused on her work, on the excitement of beginning to fulfill her purpose, to move into the world and make a difference, and did not really even notice him.

She only became aware of his interest when she was drinking one evening with friends and they began to tease her about her secret lover. She stared at them, open mouthed. “What are you talking about?”

“Tercyn,” they said. “He can speak of nothing but you. He is besmitten!”

“No,” she said. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“Yes!” they said. “How can you not have noticed?”

She flushed. She did not know how she could not have noticed. She did not know what she should have noticed. “Nonsense,” she said. “He has said nothing. He has done nothing.”

Emilio laughed. “You just didn’t notice.” he said. “He has been doing and saying things for some time.”

“But perhaps,” said Guin, who knew her reading habits, slyly, “he has not been as obvious as the heroes in a story. Such heroes are given to extravagant demonstrations of their affections. They battle demons. They slay dragons. How can a mere Seeker compete? We are much duller in our duties!”

“Ah,” said Dominic. “You are a _difficult_ lover to satisfy, then! You demand more than the average person can offer!”

“I demand nothing unreasonable,” growled Cassandra, stung. “But I am not interested in Tercyn.”

“Why not? He is a charming man.”

“I have no time for romance,” she said. It was not quite true; she suspected that if she had fallen in love she would have managed somehow. But she had not.

“You just need to meet the right man,” said Dominic.

“Or woman,” said Ursula, pointedly. She had recently embarked on a new romance with a woman, and was herself besmitten.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. She was attracted to men, theoretically, but certainly felt nothing at all for women. “I am happy as I am,” she said.

It was not that she did not have urges or understand what they meant. The Seeker community tended to be insular, with romances occurring more often between its walls than outside, and she had a much better understanding of human relationships than when she was a twelve-year-old in Nevarra. The things she observed provided helpful context for some of the more explicit romances she read. Such novels sometimes provoked interesting and intense sensations, and she had learned how to satisfy herself when necessary. But she had never had such reactions to a real person, though she did not care to admit it to her friends.

“No, no,” said Dominic, laughing. “Everyone needs a lover. You must set a challenge for suitors that is substantial enough to satisfy your elevated requirements. Perhaps you could ask them to bring you the head of a snowy wyvern. No, ten of them.” And the conversation devolved into a competition to propose the most outrageous and amusing challenges for Cassandra’s potential suitors.

The joke continued, and grew over time; it became almost a ritual for someone to call out a ridiculous challenge for a prospective lover for Cassandra. She let them have their fun. No one but her group of friends understood the joke, or knew that it related to her, and she knew that it was only intended as affectionate teasing. Occasionally the most outrageous suggestions even surprised her into a laugh.

But... she supposed there was truth in the joke. She _was_ difficult. She might not exactly ask for the heads of snowy wyverns, but she did not know how to make herself approachable. She was still not good at casual conversation if it dealt with personal matters. She was frequently oblivious to things that others took for granted, especially anything relating to feelings; she did not seem to understand others as easily as most people did. She was awkward and brusque when she didn’t mean to be. Her sense of humour often did not seem to match that of others.

But it didn’t matter. If no one was prepared to fight through her idiosyncrasies, to try to understand her, they were not worth her time.

**The Right Hand**

Cassandra kneels in the Seeker chapel in the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux. Her naked blades lie before her. The armour she will put on in the morning rests on a stand behind them, and the tabard with the Seekers’ eye. She wears a simple white shirt and breeches, and plain boots of white dragonhide. There are candles around her, their light flickering. One rests before her knees, between her and the swords. These are expensive candles; only the best are used in the Grand Cathedral. They will last through the night. The scent of beeswax drifts around her, sweet and cloying.

She stares at the candle and fights for self control. Too much has happened, and too quickly. Byron, the blood mage Frenic, the dragons, the pride demon... Her breath is quick and light. Too quick. She must calm herself. All is well. She has saved the Divine, and all is well.

She saved the Divine. She had expected a commendation, but not this. Not to be named the Right Hand.

It is ridiculous. She is far too young. Part of her is exhilarated, part is terrified. Part is convinced that they have made a dreadful mistake and will soon realize it. Part wonders why it has happened at all, part thinks cynically of politics and the Game. Part cannot imagine the power that she now wields, and part realizes that she is merely a pawn that Beatrix has moved into place.

It is too much. She will deal with it later. She stubbornly forces herself through the calming exercises, the meditations that empty her. Tomorrow there will be the ceremony of her investiture. This vigil is a preparation, a time of prayer, of offering, of the affirmation of her faith. She must be calm, and open herself to the presence of the Maker. She can almost hear Byron’s voice, telling her that she must let go of the things that trouble her, set them aside. That she must—

Byron. Byron is dead, and the memory guts her. She has not really had time to think about it before. Byron died protecting her, coming between her and the blade that would have taken her life, making himself her shield. She had thought of nothing but attacking, had thrown herself forward against the mages, lost in fury. And Byron died.

She will be calm, she must be calm. By sheer force of will she directs her mind to follow the patterns. And in the end she is calm. She closes her eyes and the flame still burns, bright and clear. She is open. She waits. She accepts. She seems to feel the sound of the flame, hear its golden glow. The glow spreads and passes through her, and she sees the warmth of Andraste’s love, the presence of the Maker in all things. She feels—

 _Will you choose to be a shield, or a flame?_ says Anthony.

She is a flame. She burns. She burns in the Maker’s light. She is the flame that will destroy evil, right wrongs, serve justice.

 _A flame may sear the innocent as well as the evil_ , says Anthony, and she remembers something that Byron said long ago, about the shards that fly from destruction, and how they may strike unexpectedly and do damage not intended. She thinks of the times she lost herself in the flame, in the fury and the glory of it.

 _The fire that scourges the land cannot protect the creatures that live there_ , says Anthony, and she thinks again of Byron, falling. Unexpectedly she thinks of Heral. _The flame serves righteousness, and leaves the weak to suffer. The shield cannot prevent all evil, but defends the weak, the helpless, the innocent. Will you be a flame or a shield?_ She bows her head and passes her hand through the flame.

In the morning, when she leaves the chapel, she takes only one blade with her, and asks for a shield.

**The end**

For quite some time the Divine kept her close; she had saved Beatrix’s life, and was the Hero of Orlais, and had been named her Right Hand. As such she must be seen, and celebrated, and she stood by the Divine’s side, an exalted bodyguard, a proof of the rightness of the Divine’s cause. She stood by as the Most Holy planned and executed her intentions; occasionally Divine Beatrix would ask her opinion, so she had to pay close attention. She had little of substance to do, which frustrated her; but at least it meant that she spent most of her time in Val Royeaux, where Galyan was part of the Circle at the White Spire, and so it was easy for their relationship to grow and flourish.

Galyan gave her so much, she thought, years later. He had shown her that mages were people, capable of all the good and bad of anyone. He had shown her gentleness, and called gentleness from her; she had startled like a spooked horse at first, not knowing how to deal with it; but he had been patient with her fear and anger and suspicion and had given her time. She had fallen in love with him, of course: how could she not? He was handsome and kind and romantic and brave and strong in a way she had not seen men be strong before. With Galyan she had discovered passion far beyond her simple solitary pleasures, a revelation of delight. She gave him her heart, and he kept it carefully.

But later, when the story had faded in people’s minds, Beatrix began to send her on missions that kept her away from the city for long periods of time, and then things became harder. At first their reunions were deliriously happy, cementing their relationship more strongly. But time went by, and over the years they began to grow apart. The affection remained, but the passion began to fade.

And then she received a letter. _When you return to Val Royeaux we must talk_ , it said. _But I want you to know what I am thinking now, so you are not taken by surprise._

_We have been lovers for some years, and you are very dear to me. But over time our lives have changed. We have changed. Our friendship remains strong, but can you say that the passion is as it was? I think we both know that it is not. I do not think you are in love with me anymore, as you were when we first became lovers. My love for you has changed as well. I think it cannot but be this way, when we spend so much time apart._

_We have fallen into the habit of a relationship, and we both deserve more than that. I have grown fond of someone I have met in the Circle, and I wish to offer her my love, but I will not pursue a bond with her until I have sorted things out with you. I ask that you release me. I have enquired at the Chantry and been told that you are expected to return to Val Royeaux within the month; will you come to speak with me about this when you return?_

Cassandra stared at the letter, unsure what she felt. She felt... many things. It was difficult to sort them out. It was difficult to think clearly. She must calm herself. She must think logically.

It was true that they did not have what they had started with. It had become comfortable, like a soft old robe that you slide into after a hard day. There was something, some spark, which was no longer there. She enjoyed making love with Galyan, but there was not the desire, the need, that there had been. She did not really miss it when they were not together. She did not miss him.

Perhaps that should not matter. Perhaps this was the normal course of a relationship. But it was not what she wanted.

And... she had felt pain when she had read his words. And jealousy. But she had also felt relief.

 _Your letter was a shock, Galyan_ , she wrote in reply some days later. _I did not know that you were unhappy. But I have thought on it, and I think you are right. I do not want a relationship that is only habit, and though I care for you greatly I think that it is true that that is what we have. We will meet and speak more of this when I return to Val Royeaux._

When they met, they hugged each other, cried together, laughed together, and in the end they agreed to be friends. And they had carried it off, surprisingly: Galyan had always been a good correspondent, and wrote long letters, and continued to do so even after they were no longer lovers. Cassandra was not so good at putting things on paper, but she had made an effort for his sake, and gotten in the habit of it, and so they continued to write to each other. He was still her best friend, and knew her in ways that no other did.

In Beatrix’s last years she had, once again, less to do, for as the Divine’s faculties failed she sent Cassandra out less often. Much of what transpired at that time was simply maintaining the things that Beatrix had already put in place, and did not require effort on Cassandra’s part or challenge her in any way. That was when she began to do more with the Seeker order again. It was strange to her that Byron was no longer there; she had not realized how strongly she had associated the order with him, and in some ways it now seemed foreign and unfamiliar. But she still had friends there, and although her responsibilities as the Right Hand prevented her from taking missions on behalf of the Seekers, she began to do some training for them, and in the end took apprentices herself.

She did not take a lover again after Galyan. She was not quite sure why. Some men attracted her attention briefly, rousing a mild physical reaction, but it generally passed quickly, before she could act on it. On the few occasions when the interest seemed to engage her emotions, she calmed herself until she could view the attraction dispassionately: there was no point in being foolish. The attraction never survived past that examination, so it was demonstrably not serious.

On the other hand, the ones whose attention she attracted never seemed to be interesting to her, and she shut them down politely but quickly. This group included a number of women, whose interest she found annoying. It was not that she was offended by their attraction to her—the idea of women together was for the most part uninteresting but not distasteful to her—but their attentions provoked something prickly and suspicious and defensive, and she didn’t like it.

But with regard to the men who were eligible, part of the problem, she thought, was likely simply that she was rarely around anyone for an extended length of time. Seekers travelled a great deal, so most of them were not in Val Royeaux for long. And who else would she get involved with but another Seeker? Templars distrusted and sometimes hated members of the order. Mages—Galyan had been an exception in this, as he was in so many things—tended to distrust as well, as most saw Seekers only as a superior kind of Templar. Nobles played the Game: having seen what she had, she could never trust an Orlesian noble. That distrust prejudiced her against nobility in general, and she had seen nothing that might convince her to change her attitudes. She had little to do with common folk, except in matters of business and in investigations, and neither were likely to encourage liaisons; and indeed, most common folk were terrified of Seekers. Maker knew what kinds of stories had been spread about them.

Of course, romance was not necessary. It was delightful, certainly, but she did not need it. When you were alone you didn’t have to worry about anyone else. You did not have to be afraid that—well. It was simply easier not to be involved with anyone. She was perfectly happy alone. Her work was fulfilling; she had friends and associates, even if there were none save Galyan that she was close to. She had attained a level of status and responsibility that surpassed her expectations. In serving the Divine she did things that could make a difference in the world, could help to make it better. She had achieved her goals, and then some. Anthony would have been proud of her.

In any case relationships were complicated, and involved work. They needed to be carefully tended, constantly tended, or they would die; the romance with Galyan had taught her that. And she wanted more than the kind of on-again-off-again relationship that being with another Seeker would involve. She did not want a casual affair, or a solely physical one; she wanted a relationship that meant something. Her friends had been right; she set a high bar for a lover. Maybe that made her difficult, but why should that be seen as a problem? She knew what she wanted and would not settle for less. She wanted a lover who would meet the challenges set by her character. She wanted a lover who would not demand that she set aside her work for him. At the same time, she wanted a lover who was _there_. She wanted a lover who committed, who felt the same way about a relationship that she did. She wanted the honest affection of a true romantic, not dishonest maneuvering. She wanted the ideal.

She would not accept less. If she met someone who could give her that, she would be delighted. It was just that she had not met such a man.

*           *           *

By the age of thirty, Cassandra was tired. She had been the Divine’s Right Hand for twelve years, and it no longer satisfied her. She did not have the freedom to fulfill the duties of a Seeker as others did. She could no longer say honestly that her work for the Divine fulfilled her as it had. She no longer felt that she truly stood for justice; she had been asked, too often, to simply be an enforcer of policy. She had seen too much to have the easy faith in the Chantry that she had begun with. Working with apprentices—the lad Daniel was very promising—was some solace, but it was not enough.

When Beatrix finally died she assumed that the new Divine would choose a Right Hand of her own liking, and found herself happy that she would soon be freed; now she would be able to put politics behind her and do what she had been trained to do. But to her surprise, Justinia called her to a meeting. There would be a new Left Hand, as the woman Cassandra had worked with was old and no longer wished to serve, but Most Holy wished Cassandra to continue in her duties. For the first part of the meeting Cassandra scarcely listened, thinking only of how she would refuse when given a chance to speak; but then something Justinia said caught her attention and she began to listen properly.

“There will be changes,” Most Holy was saying, calmly but firmly. “There will be resistance to those changes. But it is necessary; if we do not change, if we do not serve the world in a way that is just, the Chantry will lose everything. The Chantry has made mistakes. Its leaders have served worldly interests for too long, and not the will of the Maker. The Chantry must serve all, and not just a few. We must reach out to other nations, other races, as equals, and offer them Andraste’s grace.

“Make no mistake,” she said then, looking at Cassandra. “There are many with vested interests who will resist such changes. There is likely to be violence, and subversion. There may be outright rebellion. I need agents I can trust in this, people who will stand for what is right, and not what is convenient and expedient or serves their own interests. I do not know you personally, Cassandra, but I know that you are an honest, devout woman who stands for justice. I know that you have been dissatisfied with much in recent years. I do not need a fist to crush opposition, to enforce the interests of the Chantry rather than those of the Maker. But I need a strong Right Hand to support me as I make the changes that are necessary. Will you stand with me?”

And Cassandra, who had fully intended to refuse, found herself saying, “Most Holy, I will.”

It was a breath of fresh air. It was a chance for change, to fight for something worthy, for a Divine who stood for the things the Chantry _should_ strive to support. Inspired by her vision, Cassandra threw the whole of her strength and support behind the new Divine, and never regretted doing so.

*           *           *

The new Left Hand was an enigmatic woman; Cassandra was not entirely sure how to take her. One thing was clear at their first meeting: she was certainly the source of the Divine’s knowledge of the Right Hand’s history and character. She made it clear that she had an excellent network of spies and informants whispering in her ear.

Leliana had been trained as a Bard and was an expert player of the Game, which made Cassandra inherently suspicious of her, but she had fought with the Hero of Ferelden, and helped to kill the Archdemon. She was tough and determined, and it was clear that her faith was strong. She could not be all bad. But...

“Justinia believes that we should work together more than is customary for the Right and Left Hands,” said Leliana, offering a spiced tea. “I agree. I think that there will be threats to Most Holy’s mission, and that we need to share an understanding of our work if we are to work together against those threats. Not everything; but certainly we need an overview of the duties each of us carries out on her behalf.”

“I cannot imagine that you do not already know everything there is to know about me and my work,” said Cassandra, who was feeling irritable and not at all certain that she wished to work more closely with Leliana. The Left Hand had demonstrated the scale of her knowledge very clearly, leaving the Seeker feeling exposed in a way she did not like at all.

Leliana smiled. “I do know a great deal; it is my job to know. But I do not know every detail, nor do I want to.” She leaned forward, all humour gone. “Cassandra, Divine Justinia needs us both. She needs the hand that is honest and open and—decent—to carry out her will and show her justice. You are that person. I cannot promise to be the same; I am the hand that is hidden, and you know very well what that means. I know that you dislike it. But we have the same aims. We both know that things must change. I have known Justinia for many years. I love her and trust her and will carry out her will as I must. I am sworn to protect her, as you are, and I mean to do it, by any means necessary. If we work together we will be stronger than if we work alone. I ask that you consider this.”

Cassandra sighed. It was logical. “It is necessary. I will do it.”

And Leliana smiled.

As time went by they met regularly, and a strange not-quite friendship began to develop between them. She often felt clumsy and foolish around the Left Hand, and she disliked feeling that way. She found her difficult to read, and resented her ability to mask herself: where was the real woman? But Leliana seemed genuinely to like Cassandra, and Cassandra began to develop a respect and kind of liking for her as well, though she would have been hard-pressed to admit it. Partly it was because Leliana could be delightfully charming, and frequently charmed Cassandra, who was annoyed by her own susceptibility.

“You are too easy to read, Cassandra,” said Leliana once, teasing. “You wear your feelings on your face. If you want to play the Game you need to learn to dissemble.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “But I do not want to play the Game.” Leliana simply laughed.

“Everyone plays the Game,” she said. “But never mind. You are yourself, and best as you are.” And Cassandra could not quite decide whether to be pleased or offended.

*           *           *

Cassandra sat alone in her quarters and stared at her fire. The letter from Daniel lay on her table. The letter...

 _I go with the Lord Seeker_ , he had written. _I know that you will stay with the Divine. I know that your faith leads you in this, that you believe she follows the Maker’s will, and I cannot argue with that._

_But my faith does not lead me on the same road. The Divine sought to undermine the Seekers and Templars, and I believe that this is a deadly error. We are all that stands against the terror that will follow if mages are unleashed. I truly believe that it is our duty to prevent that._

_I am sorry, Cassandra. We do what we must do. May the Maker’s light shine upon both of us._

We do what we must do.

Daniel had been the last and best of her apprentices; he was an excellent fighter, but not just that. He was clever and quick in all learning. He held to a standard of honesty and justice that reminded her of herself when she had been younger. He had ideals. She had thought he would be her legacy.

And now....

Kirkwall had started it. There had been great injustice shown to mages there, and it was hardly surprising that the mages had rebelled. The Divine, according to Leliana, had supported many of their aims, and wished to reform the conditions of their service. But despite Justinia’s best efforts, the templars had rejected her attempts to find a compromise, and had attacked the conclave at the White Spire, and then Lord Seeker Lambert had declared the Nevarran Accord null and void. Lambert had since disappeared, but Lord Seeker Lucius Corin had made his intention to follow his predecessor’s direction clear. The Seekers and Templars would choose their own path now. They would no longer accept the authority of the Chantry.

And now the mages had voted to fight for independence from the Chantry. And the Right of Annulment had been enacted upon the Dairsmuid Circle.

Were they all mad?

Cassandra trusted Justinia; she believed in what Most Holy stood for. She _knew_ what Most Holy stood for: justice. She only needed time, and the fools had refused to give it to her.

She knew Galyan. She knew that there were decent mages, no, _good_ mages. She still held reservations about them, and her reflex was to distrust them, but they deserved better than they had been given. If one mage did something evil, they would be held up as proof that all mages were evil. If one mage did something good, they would be ignored and passed over, as the mages who helped her save Beatrix had been. She thought they were wrong to cry for independence, but she understood very well why they felt they must.

The mages and templars would not listen to sense. There must be a third force; Justinia planned to restore the Inquisition in order to provide some stability through all the madness. But it would need a leader, someone of stature and capability, someone untouched by the present conflict. There were possible candidates, but the Hero of Ferelden had disappeared, and Cassandra’s interrogation of the dwarf in Kirkwall had not turned up Hawke. Perhaps if she had investigated further, beyond what Varric knew... But she had not. She had failed Justinia.

The Seekers... the Seekers were her family. But they chose a road she could not follow. They were wrong to treat the mages as animals. They were wrong to turn away from the Chantry: it was a sin of pride, to think they knew better than the Divine, to think they must be the ultimate arbiters of the destiny of Thedas.

The Seekers were her family. But she could not follow them in this.

Daniel was family. She was responsible for him. But she could not follow him, and he refused her guidance. She had failed him as well.

She felt appallingly tired and old. Old scars ached. There was a pain somewhere under her breastbone that would not go away, and another behind her right eye, throbbing.

But she had chosen where she would stand. She would not fail Justinia again.

**The beginning**

The world has ended. Cassandra stares at the pulsing red and wonders why she is still alive.

It is not only red; there is blackness too, amongst the red lyrium crystals. Charred things that were once human. But the feel of it—that is red, and the red hazes her sight and catches in her throat like blades.

Galyan is dead. Justinia is dead. And Cassandra allowed it to happen.

She would be dead as well, logic tells her, if she had not still been riding in from the Hinterlands when it happened. So would Leliana, returning from Val Royeaux. There had seemed no rush to return, for the Conclave would last for weeks as negotiations continued, and they had still been hoping, still searching for the Champion. They had agreed that they would rejoin the Divine a week after the Conclave began.

But logic does not satisfy, in this. She was not there, and Justinia is dead. She has failed in her duty. She has failed, and Justinia is dead. She is wound tightly as a crossbow, not knowing what will release the bolt, or what target it will find, but knowing it must find release eventually or she will go mad.

There is redness, and there is blackness. She chooses red over black; the darkness is too seductive. She knows that if she falls into it she will never escape its grip. Redness is better. There will be something to do, preferably something that involves killing, and she will do it.

She rides back to Haven, to the hastily assembled camp where the survivors have gathered. It is a haphazard encampment laid over the bones of the town, and reeks of fear. No one knows who was responsible for this. But everyone knows who they would _like_ to be responsible, including Cassandra.

“The prisoner has woken,” says Leliana without preamble, as the Seeker rides up. “I have just received word.”

Cassandra dismounts and tosses the reins of her horse to a soldier. “Then we must not waste any time.”

She throws the door open and enters; the soldiers inside relax a little—these are officers, they will deal with the problem—and sheathe their swords. She begins to circle the prisoner and tries to calm herself. This is the person who killed the Divine. The person who _perhaps_ killed the Divine, she cautions herself. The prisoner is not a large woman, not imposing. She has been unconscious, and still seems weak. But Cassandra does not trust appearances. She saw the remains of the Temple.

Leliana follows her, and stands before the prisoner. Cassandra, behind the woman, leans forward, mouth unsettlingly close to ear. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed.” Her voice cracks, and she is furious at the sign of weakness. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but finding who is responsible. Finding who is responsible, and destroying them. “Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

The woman’s head comes up at this. “You think I’m responsible.”

Rigid shackles hold the woman’s hands apart; they rest on her thighs. Cassandra catches one hand and yanks it up roughly. “Explain this.” The green light on the hand flares; the woman flinches and makes a stifled sound. Cassandra drops the hand and begins to pace. Her rage is building.

“I... can’t,” says the woman, sounding uncertain.

“What do you mean you can’t?” There is red everywhere, now.

“I don’t know what that is. Or how it got there.”

“You’re lying!” Cassandra grabs her by the throat. She wants to strike, to kill; her voice is hoarse with bloodlust, with the strain of controlling herself. No. She _will_ kill. She will avenge Justinia. She will—

Leliana is pushing her back. She is pale, but her face is unyielding. “We need her, Cassandra.”

It is logic. Cassandra makes a noise of frustration and stops resisting Leliana’s hand. Let the Left Hand handle this. She is beyond language now. She cannot stay still; she prowls the room, pacing like a caged animal, wheeling and turning. She forces her mind to a calming exercise. She will not lose herself to the rage, to the pain. If she loses herself in anger she can do nothing.

“I can’t believe it,” says the prisoner. She sounds shaken. “All those people... dead?”

“Do you remember how this happened?” says Leliana. “How it began?”

“I remember running,” says the woman hesitantly. “Things were chasing me. And then... a woman.”

“A woman!” says Leliana, startled.

“She—reached out to me. But then...” She makes a frustrated sound.

Cassandra has finally found her self-control. Leliana is right. They need this woman. She is their only chance. And it is possible that she is innocent; she must be given a chance as well, to defend herself against the accusations. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” she says. “I will take her to the rift.”

Leliana looks at her carefully, but she is calm now. She will do what is necessary. The Left Hand nods and leaves.

Cassandra begins to unshackle the prisoner.

“What did happen?” says the woman.

Cassandra hesitates. “It... will be easier to show you.”

She ties the prisoner’s hands with rope; she will take no chances. The woman stares at her. Cassandra sees confusion and defiant outrage in her eyes. She sees no fear, no guilt. Perhaps she is not guilty of anything beyond being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and surviving.

She reaches out to pull the woman to her feet. “What is your name?” says Cassandra. “We must have something to call you.”

The woman smells of leather and sweat and fire and spices.

 _Pay attention_ , says Anthony.

“I am a Trevelyan from Ostwick,” says the woman. “Call me Trev.”

 

*           *           *

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._

_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_

_She should see fire and go toward Light._

—transfigurations 10

**Author's Note:**

> I like thinking about what makes people what they are, and as I like Cassandra as a character so much I started thinking about what made her the person she is. Some of it we know—obviously her upbringing by her uncle in the Grand Necropolis after her parents' death, and then Anthony's death, had an enormous impact—but there are significant gaps in the details. 
> 
> I had already started thinking about her backstory as part of the process of writing my other DAI stories, and then I started thinking about putting some of those ideas—just a few!—in a short backstory story, and it kind of got away from me. Some of what's in this story expands logically from what we know from canon (Anthony training her, her resistance to wearing dresses) but much of it is wholly invented by me (e.g. her friend Alisande, details of the vigil and Seeker ritual). The invented parts are things that I think make sense in the context of her character, but of course they are not the only possible backstories, and ymmv.
> 
> With regard to that invented Seeker ritual: templars must use lyrium, and the process of making a templar involves lyrium; but Seekers don’t need to use it to access their abilities. I’m therefore assuming that their vigil brings them to a state of consciousness that will allow them be made tranquil during the ritual that makes them Seekers without resorting to its use. This would mean that a candidate's failure during the ritual would not be fatal and would not result in tranquility—they simply would not achieve the state in which they could be made tranquil and then touched by a spirit. This makes sense to me because otherwise there’d be tranquil Seeker failures around, and I can’t imagine that the fact that the ritual involves tranquility could be kept a secret. (They could be killed to hide the fact, of course, but that’s another set of nasty secrets to cover up.)
> 
> I pulled a couple of things from [madamebadger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/madamebadger/pseuds/madamebadger)'s headcanons: specifically, that Nomi is a lay sister, and that young Cassandra knocked a suitor off a balcony (it's certainly canon that she broke a boy's arm, but the balcony—well, after reading what badger wrote I can't see it any other way). So many thanks to madamebadger for her wonderful thinkie thoughts!
> 
> And as always, many thanks to my partner and beta-reader, who tosses me plot points and problem-fixes like M+Ms, and they're just as delicious.


End file.
